essayist,   poet, 
it.  n,    18 

i  in  London,    where  he  TH\ 
^ty  on  matters  connected  wifcia 
_-e-  boating  on   the  Thames,  ^f' 
h  he  had  always  been  an  ardei/o 
tee.     Much,  of  his  writing  was 
.ted  to  his  outdoor  life.      Besides 
itributions   to  magazines,    he 
regularly  for   the  press,    and  was 
er  of  the  editorial   staff  of 
'London  Graphic.      Among  his  best 
i/n  works   are:    "Shuttlecock  Papers,'1 
5;    "Tin£  Travels,"  1874;    "Boudoir 
s,"   (1876);    "Cucumber  Chroncles, 
;    "The  Lazy  Minstrel,"  1887; 
'  ;shell   Novels,"  189u;    "A  Naughty 
'.,"   1893. 


long  poem,    "King  of   trie   Cradle,  n 
!>n  pages  2S-24  of  "Home  Book  of 
"A  iiarlow  Madrigal,"   "A  I 
"   and  "The  Littu  -el"   are  in 

s  Victorian   Anthology. 


.. 
fit, 


The  River  Rhymer 


[Among  the  verses  in  this  collection  may  be  found  a 
few  which  have  previously  appeared  in  a  volume,  by  the 
same  Author,  now  out  of  print.] 


The  River 

Rhymer 


By 

y.  ASHBY-STERRY 

Author  of  "  A  Naughty  Girl,"  "  A  Tale  of  the  Thames,"  "  The 

Lazy   Minstrel,"    "Cucumber   Chronicles,"    "Boudoir 

Ballads,"  "Shuttlecock  Papers,"  "Tiny  Travels," 

"Snailway  Guides,"  "The  Bystander," 

"Nutshell  Novels," 

etc.  etc. 


Now  as  you  pass  the  Thames  along 
Pray  listen  to  the  Rhymer  s  song  ! 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


15228 


The  Author  reserves  all  rights  of  translation  and  reproduction. 
This  especially  includes  all  musical  fights. 


TO 
WILLIAM  HENRY  WELDON,  C.V.O.,  F.S.A. 

CLARENCEUX  KING    OF  ARMS — 

IN   MEMORY   OF  MANY  DELIGHTFUL  DAYS 

ABOARD   HIS   MOST  HOSPITABLE  "ATHENA"— 

THIS   VOLUME  IS   INSCRIBED 

BY   HIS   OLD   FRIEND 

THE  AUTHOR 


THE  BILL    OF  LADING 

The  Thames,  let  me  mention,  here  claims  your  attention — 

You'll  find  it  depicted  afloat  and  ashore  ; 
Its  banks  and  backwaters,  its  picturesque  quarters, 

from  Trewsbtiry  Mead  even  down  to  the  Nore  I 
Likewise  its  dock  marges,  its  grimy  coal  barges, 

Its  steam-tugs,  its  -vessels  from  Glasgow  or  Goole  ; 
Where  lumpers  are  stirring  and  cranes  ever  whirring 

And  liners  and  schuyts  you  may  see  in  the  Pool. 
Here  toiling  amazing  and  infinite  lazing, 

'Mid  open  air  life,  are  presented  to  you  : 
And  moonlight  excursions  and  endless  diversions 

In  houseboat  or  dinghy,  in  punt  or  canoe  ! 
Then  if  you  have  leisure,  may  I  have  the  pleasure, 

To  ask  you  to  kindly  accompany  me — 
My  banjo  is  ringing,  pray  list  while  I'm  singing 

The  Songs  of  the  Thames  from  the  Source  to  the  Sea  ! 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  THAMES  .  3 

WARM  WEATHER  WISHES  .  6 

RADCOT  BRIDGE  .  ...        8 

MARLOW  CHIMES             .  .  10 

WATER  FAIRIES               .  .  12 

THE  DESPOT      .                .  16 

A  TALK  WITH  A  TURTLE  .  .        .18 

ON  PATRICK'S  STREAM    .  .  .        .      23 

THE  "RED  LION"  LAWN  .  25 

A  CAPITAL  CREW            .  .  28 

THE  PRAIRIES  OF  -IHE  THAMES  .  30 

EASY  ALL  !                       .  .  39 

DRIFTING  DOWN              .  .  .        .      42 

A  SUMMER  COMEDY        .  .  .        .      44 

LALEHAM  FERRY             .  .  .        .      48 

HUNGERFORD  BRIDGE      .  .  50 

CECIL'S  SONG     .  .  ...      54 

A  RIVER  NOCTURNE        .  .  56 

MUCH  RAIN       .               .  59 

THE  HAUNTED  STEPS  61 


CONTENTS 


PART  II 

PAGE 

AT  NEW  BRIDGE              .  .  67 

PLEASANT  QUARTERS       .  .  70 

A  FAVOURITE  FROCK       .  .           •        •  73 

THE  AUTUMN  FLOOD      .  .  76 

A  WET  SEASON                .  .  78 

A  SWING-SONG                 .  .  81 

A  VERY  GOOD  REASON   .  .  83 

AN  IDLE  IDYL  .               .  ...  85 

A  RIVER  RHAPSODY        .  .  87 

IN  THE  OLD  GARDEN      .  .  90 

A  RIVER  STREET             .  .  92 

SKINDLE'S  IN  OCTOBER    .  .  98 

BLANKTON  WEIR             .  ...  100 

A  LUCID  INTERVAL         .  ...  106 

THE  JARGLE      .              .  ...  108 

A  FAIR  PUNTRESS            .  .           .        .  113 

THE  EARLY  PLUNGE        .  .                    .  115 

THE  SUNBURNT  DUCHESS  .  .        .118 

THE  LOG  OF  THE  "SALLY  ANN"  121 


PART  III 

A  LOCK  LYRIC  .  .  ...  127 

BAROMETRICAL  BALLAD  .  .        .  129 

A  CITY  SAINT  .  .  ...  131 

THE  IMPARTIAL  .  ...  134 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

HAMBLEDEN  LOCK           .  ...  135 

A  PRIVATE  VIEW             .  ...  138 

REST    .               .                .  ...  140 

A  SCULLER'S  SNAPSHOT  .  ...  143 

AN  OPEN  LETTER            .  ...  146 

DRIFTING  APART             .  ...  149 

IN  THE  SHADE  .               .  ...  151 

THE  HAYMAKERS             .  ...  154 

THE  PERFECT  HOLIDAY  .  .           .        .  156 

A  SONG  ON  SKATES         .  .                    .  159 

THE  DIRGE  OF  THE  DUMB-BARGEE          .        .  162 

OFF  GRAVESEND              .  ...  165 

THE  RIPARIAN  PHILOSOPHER         .  .        .  168 

A  SENSELESS  BARCAROLLE  .            .        .171 

THE  WATER-GIRL            .  .           .        .  173 

PARADISE  LOST                .  ...  175 

PART  IV 

HOLLAND-ON-THAMES      .  .           .        .  185 

A  SECRET          .               .  ...  189 

WHITE  WINGS  .               .  ...  190 

A  WEATHER  WAIL          .  ...  192 

NINETY  IN  THE  SHADE  .  ...  194 

A  RHYME  IN  THE  RAIN  .  ...  197 

L'lNCONNUE         .                      .  ...  200 

THE  SKIPPER  OF  THE  "CHATTERBOX"    .        .  203 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  FERRY  GIRL            .  ...  206 

A  LAZY  LAY     .               .  ...  209 

DOWN  LIMEHOUSE  WAY  .           .        .  212 

THE  CHEETAH  .               .  ...  217 

THE  FIRST  WEIR             .  ...  220 

A  CASUAL  CRUISE           .  ...  225 

THE  LAST  WEIR              .  ...  227 

SOUTHWARK  BRIDGE       .  ...  230 

THE  TWILIGHT  SONATA  .  ...  234 

AT  THE  NORE  .               .  ...  240 

GOOD-BYE  TO  THE  RIVER  .            .        .  244 


The  River  Rhymer 


PART    I 


THE   SOURCE   OF   THE   THAMES 


Half-hidden  in  its  grassy  bed 
You'll  find  that  slender  silver  thread — 
The  tiny  Thames  ;  which,  here  set  free, 
Begins  its  journey  to  the  sea  I 


'Tis  sweet  in  the  Cotswolds  to  wander 

And  muse  under  blue  summer  sky, 
To  muse  and  do  nothing  but  ponder 

And  dream  in  the  joy  of  July  ! 
In  groves  where  Pope  strolled  it  is  pleasant 

To  roam,  and  the  roamer  receives 
A  peep  of  the  past  in  the  present, 

Enshrined  in  a  lyric  of  leaves  ! 
So,  when  weary  of  town  and  of  riot, 

And  if  for  calm  rest  you  have  need — 
You  will  find  the  most  exquisite  quiet 

In  Trewsbury  Mead  ! 


THE  SOURCE  OF  THE    THAMES 

No  sound  but  the  lark  gaily  singing 

And  magical  music  of  trees  : 
Which  seems,  in  its  melody,  bringing 

A  far  distant  song  of  the  seas. 
Though  shady  the  Hayley  plantation, 

Though  sombre  the  Pinbury  yews, 
Though  grateful  indeed  the  sensation 

Derived  from  the  Sapperton  views — 
You  feel  there's  a  surcease  of  worry, 

A  peace  that's  delicious  indeed, 
Quite  free  from  all  bustle  and  hurry 

In  Trewsbury  Mead  ! 

From  banks  that  are  mossy  and  broken. 

From  hollows  all  rugged  and  torn, 
'Mid  docks  and  'mid  nettles  well  soaken, 

'Neath  shade  of  the  ash  and  the  thorn — 
The  Thames,  with  a  flash  and  a  quiver, 

Comes  glinting  with  silvery  gleam, 
The  tiniest  thread  of  a  river. 

An  infinitesimal  stream  ! 
It  winds  amid  tall  nodding  grasses, 

It  hides  'neath  the  leaf  and  the  weed — 
And,  almost  unnoticed,  it  passes 

Through  Trewsbury  Mead  ! 


THE  SOURCE   OF  THE    THAMES 

The  silvery  rillet  progresses 

And,  as  it  goes  dancing  along, 
Forget-me-nots,  brooklime  and  cresses 

Keep  time  to  its  rhythmical  song  ! 
It  gleams  and  it  dimples  and  glimmers 

And  pebbles  flash  bright  as  it  flows  : 
It  sparkles,  it  wrinkles,  it  shimmers, 

A  thousand  reflections  it  shows  ! 
It  ripples,  it  babbles,  it  bubbles 

As,  gathering  volume  and  speed, 
It  flees  to  the  world  and  its  troubles — 

From  Trewsbury  Mead  ! 


Now  this,  beyond  question,  the  Source  is — 

Well  known  to  the  Rhymer  who  sings — 
So  heed  not  the  man  who  endorses 

The  right  of  the  Cubberley  Springs  ! 
The  claim  of  the  Colne  you  must  bar  well 

And  only  regard  as  a  joke 
All  those  who  believe  in  the  Cherwell, 

Or  plead  for  the  Well  of  Penoke  : 
The  Source  is,  you'll  find,  truly  very — 

Authorities  all  are  agreed, 
From  Leland  to  J.  Ashby-Sterry — 

In  Trewsbury  Mead  ! 


WARM   WEATHER    WISHES 


WARM   WEATHER   WISHES 


From  Temple  windows,  opened  wide, 
I  watch  the  barges  drifting  down  : 

'Tis  blazing  hot — /  would  the  tide 
Would  bear  me  quickly  out  of  town  ! 


I  WOULD  I  were  musing  'neath  celadon  shade, 

Where  leaf-lyrics  whisper  in  Miserden  glade  ; 

Or  watching  the  Colne,  with  its  gleam  and  its  glide, 

By  Bibury  stealing  at  still  eventide  ! 

The  world  I'd  forget — by  the  world  be  forgot — 

Because  I'm  so  hot ! 

Would  I  not  ? 

Ah  !  would  that  from  here  I  could  quickly  depart 
And  lazily  lounge  by  the  swift-running  Dart ; 
Where  ripples  flash  bright  in  the  trout-haunted  fall 
And  peaches  grow  red  on  the  Vicarage  wall ! 
I'd  gather  the  fig  GX  the  ripe  apricot, 

Because  I'm  so  hot ! 

Would  I  not  ? 


WARM    WE  A  THER    WISHES 


I'd  love  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 

Than  loll  all  day  long  in  a  basswood  canoe  ! 

To  dream  through  the  hours  where  the  chesnuts 

droop  low, 
By  Ankerwycke  bend  where  the  stream  runneth 

slow ; 

I'd  moon  in  that  pleasant,  cool,  breeze-blessed  spot — 
Because  I'm  so  hot ! 
Would  I  not  ? 


If  only  some  fairy  would  bring  in  a  trice 

A  bountiful  beaker  of  cyder  and  ice 

With  soda  and  lemon-peel,  softened,  you  know, 

By  blue-blossomed  borage  and  dry  Cura?oa — 

I  candidly  own  I  would  drink  the  whole  lot — 

Because  I'm  so  hot  ! 

Would  I  not  ? 


RADCOT  BRIDGE 


RADCOT   BRIDGE 


Violet,  with  the  brightest  eyes 
Gleaming  with  a  glad  surprise  ; 
Dear,  delightful  and  discreet, 
Sweetly  shy  and  shyly  sweet ; 
Pretty,  piquant,  pouting  pel — 
None  who've  seen  her  can  forget 
Violet ! 


ON  Radcot  Bridge,  I'd  have  you  know 

They  fought  like  demons  years  ago  ! 

Here  brave  De  Vere  was  put  to  flight, 

And  left  his  troops  in  sorry  plight : 

To-day,  in  place  of  swordly  clash, 

The  boom  of  bee,  the  fishes'  plash, 

Is  all  the  sound  you  hear,  I  ween, 

To  break  the  silence  of  the  scene  ! 

And  now  a  winsome  maid  I  see, 

Who  "  holds  the  bridge  "  with  laughing  glee, 

Above  its  pointed  arch  she  stands, 

And  archly  points  with  small  brown  hands  ! 


RADCOT  BRIDGE 


On  rugged  stonework,  grim  and  grey, 
Dreams  Violet,  this  sunny  day  ; 
She  leans  well  forward  o'er  the  wall. 
While  shadows  from  her  hat  down  fall 
Across  the  sweetest  pair  of  eyes, 
That  e'er  reflected  summer  skies, 
Or  stole  from  calm,  secluded  spots, 
The  hue  of  blue  forget-me-nots  ! 
Her  red  lips  smile,  or  pout  in  pique, 
Her  dimples  play  at  hide-and-seek — 
And  as  you  gaze  you'll  ne'er  forget 
This  picture  on  the  parapet. 


MARLOW   CHIMES 


Hear  the  voice  of  waters  surly, 
Note  the  foam-rings  crisp  and  curly 
See  the  eddies  twirly-whirly, 
Listen  to  the  hurly-burly — 
Never  ceasing,  late  or  early  ! 


OH,  muse  for  a  while  by  the  tossing  tide — 

'Tis  good  to  ponder,  to  moon,  and  dream — 
Where  the  dimpled  waters  curve  and  glide 

To  ceaseless  song  of  the  swirling  stream  ! 
When  to-day  seems  gone,  and  the  past  seems  near- 

As  thoughts  revert  unto  bygone  times — 
While  the  sweet,  sad  music  of  Marlow  Weir 

Is  gaily  gladdened  by  Marlow  Chimes  ! 

'Mid  gleam  and  glow,  as  the  flood  runs  by, 
The  ripples  redden,  the  foam  flies  fast : 

The  sun  sinks  low,  and  the  sea-green  sky 
To  twilight  deepens — the  day  is  past  1 


MARLOW  CHIMES 


While  the  lightsome  laughter  of  yester  year, 
The  poem  of  youth  with  its  reckless  rhymes, 

Seem  mingled  with  music  of  Marlow  Weir, 
And  find  an  echo  in  Marlow  Chimes  ! 

Ah  !  where  are  the  comrades  of  bygone  days, 

And  where  are  the  joyous  songs  we  sang  ? 
Where  the  magic  charm  of  these  waterways  ? 

When  hearts  were  true  and  the  glad  chimes  rang  ! 
Alas  !    There  are  few  that  remain  to  hear — 

Though  some  are  haunted  in  distant  climes — 
By  the  matchless  music  of  Marlow  Weir, 

And  plaintive  clangour  of  Marlow  Chimes  ! 


12  WATER  FAIRIES 

WATER   FAIRIES 

A  DUET 

In  ev'ry  glint,  in  ev'ry  gleam 

You'll  find  that  Fairies  haunt  the  stream  ! 

BOTH 
WHO  can  tell,  if  the  River  is  haunted  by  ghosts, 

Do  goblins  gyrate,  where  the  slim  sedges  shiver  ? 
Are  loosestrife  and  lilies  e'er  crowded  by  hosts 

Of  fairies  who  frisk  where  forget-me-nots  quiver  ? 
Are  there  brownies  who  ride  upon  rushes  and  laugh  ? 

Or  pixies  who  play  in  the  sunshine  undaunted  ? 
Are  there  spirits  and  imps,  full  of  mischief  and 
chaff  ?— 

Who  can  tell  if  the  River  is  haunted  ? 

BARBARA 
When  Nature  dons  gayer  apparel, 

And  laughs  with  the  smiling  of  Spring ; 
When  birds  are  beginning  to  carol 

Tis  time  for  the  Fairies  to  sing  ! 


WATER  FAIRIES  13 

You'll  find  them  in  bluebells  abiding, 
When  orchards  with  blossoms  are  gay, 

And  sprites  in  the  snowflakes  are  hiding, 
While  brownies  'neath  violets  play  ; 

Or  under  the  primroses  gliding, 

When  bushes  are  snowy  with  may  ! 

GUY 

In  Summer  they  sigh  in  the  sedges, 

Or  soar  with  the  lark  to  the  sky  ; 
They  haunt  and  they  hide  in  the  hedges 

And  whisper  'mid  leaves  in  July. 
They  ride  on  the  ridge  of  the  billow 

And  boat  in  a  bubble  and  sing  ; 
They  romp  with  the  wrens  in  the  willow, 

Or  dream  on  a  dragon-fly's  wing ; 
With  thistledown  soft  for  a  pillow, 

In  poppies  they  slumber  and  swing  ! 

BARBARA 
When  fields  with  the  harvest  are  mellow. 

And  gleam  with  the  gold  on  the  sheaves, 
When  elfins,  with  russet  and  yellow, 

Are  tinting  the  fast-falling  leaves — 


14  WATER  FAIRIES 

When  Autumn,  with  opulent  measure 
(Though  cynics  say  Autumn  is  sad), 

Distributes  ,the  glorious  treasure 

With  which  her  rich  kingdom  is  clad — 

Then  pixies  are  panting  with  pleasure, 
And  Fairies  are  gleesome  and  glad  ! 

GUY 

They  impishly  sport  through  the  Winter 

And  dance  when  it's  dismal  and  drear  : 
When  wild  waters  crackle  and  splinter 

The  ice-floes  that  pause  at  the  weir  ! 
Down  icicles,  swift  they  come  slipping, 

O'er  lashers  they  flit  to  and  fro, 
On  thinnest  of  ice  they  go  tripping — 

Though  blizzardous  breezes  may  blow  ! 
When  frost  all  creation  is  nipping, 

They  romp  and  they  revel  in  snow  ! 

BOTH 

Two  can  tell — if  they  would — of  a  fine  summer's  day, 

When  fast  their  canoe,  on  a  shallow,  was  stranded ; 

When  they  whispered  and  laughed,   and   though 

time  sped  away, 
They  neither  expressed  the  least  wish  to  be  landed  I 


WATER  FAIRIES  15 

To  the  music  of  leaves  and  the  song  of  the  stream, 
The     dragon-fly     flashed     and     the     kingfisher 

flaunted  ; 
While  the  sun  brightly  shone  on  those  moments 

supreme — 
Two  can  tell,  that  the  River  is  haunted  ! 


1 6  THE  DESPOT 


THE   DESPOT 


A  rose-decked  hat  casts  shadows,  tender  grey, 
Across  the  golden  sunshine  of  her  smile  ; 

Her  glance  e'en  cynics  dare  not  disobey, 
Her  dimples  even  iron  hearts  beguile  : 

A  dainty  despot,  on  a  throne  of  hay, 

Who  conquers  all  by  magic  girlish  wile  ! 


PEARL,  O  Pearl ! 
Naught  but  a  lissom  English  girl, 

So  sweet  and  simple  ; 
Naught  but  the  charm  of  a  golden  curl, 
Of  blush  and  dimple — 
Pearl,  O  Pearl  ! 

Sweet,  ah,  sweet  ! 
Tis  pleasant  lolling  at  your  feet 

In  summer  playtime  ; 
Ah,  how  the  moments  quickly  fleet 
In  sunny  haytime — 
Sweet,  ah,  sweet  ! 


THE  DESPOT  17 


Dream,  ah,  dream  ! 
The  sedges  sing  by  swirling  stream 

A  lovely  brief  song  ; 
The  poplars  chant  in  sunny  gleam 
A  lulling  leaf-song — 
Dream,  ah,  dream  ! 

Stay,  O  stay  ! 
We  cannot  dream  all  through  the  day, 

Demure  and  doubtful : 
When  shines  the  sun  we  must  make  hay. 
When  lips  are  poutful — 
Stay,  O  stay ! 


i8  A    TALK   WITH  A   TURTLE 


A   TALK   WITH    A   TURTLE 


On  the  Lawn,  at  the  "  Ship,"  one  may  garrulous  grow, 
As  one  talks  to  the  Turtle  of  long,  long  ago 


O,  TURTLE,  lazing  on  the  lawn, 

That  looks  just  now  as  green  as  spinach, 
I  fain  would  chat  of  days  agone 

And  those  who  used  the  "  Ship  "  at  Greenwich, 
The  while  you  in  the  sunshine  blink, 

And  seem  devoid  of  all  sensation, 
Though  doubtless  you  soup-making  think 

A  work  of  supererogation — 
But  as  the  River  rolls  away, 
Just  list  to  me  the  while,  I  pray, 
I  babble  of  a  bygone  day  ! 

Up  Greenwich  Reach,  where  sun  shines  bright, 

And  glitters  o'er  the  panorama, 
I  note  the  white  wings  taking  flight, 

To  Yarmouth  or  to  Yokohama. ' 


A    TALK  WITH  A    TURTLE  19 

The  cattle-ship,  the  big  Scotch  boat, 

The  billyboys  by  Millwall  marges, 
With  craft  of  every  kind  afloat, 

And  fussy  tugs,  with  strings  of  barges. 
As  summer  breezes  softly  sigh, 
I  watch  the  vessels  sailing  by 
And  changing  tints  of  stream  and  sky  ! 


This  view  recalls  a  time  long  past, 

Before  the  month  of  June  was  ended — 
Such  hours  were  much  too  good  to  last — 

When  hearts  were  young  and  weather  splendid 
And  then  a  vision  will  arise — 

A  vision  somewhat  sad,  though  soothful — 
Of  sweet  and  fathomless  brown  eyes, 

That  always  seemed  so  staunch  and  truthful  ! 
Ah  !  how  the  moments  flew  away, 
For  each  had  then  so  much  to  say, 
At  luncheon  on  that  summer  day  ! 


'Twas  here  the  Major,  crafty  man — 

Be-wigged,  high-stocked  and  padded  sinner — 

To  carry  out  his  artful  plan, 

The  Begum  asked  one  day  to  dinner. 


20  A    TALK  WITH  A    TURTLE 

With  Blanche,  the  author  of  "  Mes  Larmes, 
Absurdly  French  and  false  and  flighty  ; 

And  Foker,  dazzled  by  her  charm, 

Along  with  Pen,  the  high  and  mighty. 

A  selfish,  heartless,  scheming  crew, 

His  characters  too  well  he  knew, 

The  author  of  "  Pendennis  "  drew  ! 


That  evening  in  the  "  Nelson,"  where 

The  dinner  was,  no  doubt,  perfection, 
The  conduct  of  a  certain  pair, 

I  still  think  open  to  exception  : 
They  said  they  found  the  room  was  hot, 

So  sat  outside  on  the  balcony  ; 
Then  ev'rybody  else  forgot, 

And  chattered  con  espressione  ! 
They,  heedless,  whisper  one  to  one, 
The  twilight  grows  as  sinks  the  sun, 
And  lanterns  glitter — day  is  done  ! 


The  banquet  that  commemorates 
The  World-ly  birthday,  oft  repeated, 

I  note — where  guests  by  Edmund  Yates 
Were  ever  genially  greeted  ! 


A    TALK  WITH  A    TURTLE 


George  Sala,  I  recall  was  there, 

With  other  "  worldlings  "  skilled  and  able  : 
Forbes,  Hawley  Smart,  and  "  Bras-de-Fer  " 

And  Wilkie  Collins  graced  the  table. 
The  fare  superb,  the  talk  was  bright  ; 
I  would  that  I  could  now  recite 
The  good  things  said  that  summer  night ! 


The  little  "  Star,"  I  mind  was  well 

Adapted  for  a  partie  carree  ; 
And  so  thought  once,  sweet  laughing  Nell, 

And  so  did  Maud,  and  so  did  Harry  ! 
The  menu  ?    I  can't  recollect — 

That  day  I  must  have  been  a  dreamer. 
But  in  the  twilight  I  reflect, 

When  homeward  bound  aboard  the  steamer, 
'Twas  nice,  for  once,  I  freely  own — 
And  in  this  view  I'm  not  alone — 
To  be  without  a  chaperon  ! 


A  wedding  banquet  here  must  dwell, 
Within  one's  brightest  recollection  ; 

Where  Bella,  John  and  Pa,  as  well, 
Made  merry  o'er  the  choice  refection  ! 


22  A    TALK   WITH  A    TURTLE 

The  sparkling  wine,  the  happy  pair, 

With  all  their  aged  affectation  ; 
The  bland  "  Archbishop's  "  tender  care, 
And  Rumty  Wilfer's  smart  oration  !— 
A  scene  where  fun  and  pathos  blend, 
With  all  the  heart  and  truth  that  lend, 
A  charm  unto  "  Our  Mutual  Friend  !  " 


O,  Turtle,  wink  your  yellow  eye  ! 

I  fear  that  I  prevent  you  dozing  ; 
Though  you're  unable  to  reply 

You  have  to  listen  to  my  prosing  ! 
And  though,  within  your  shell,  secure 

And  sweetly  silent,  dear  dumb  creature, 
Your  lot  is  meekly  to  endure, 

The  sermon  of  this  weekday  preacher  ! 
A  simple  fact  to  you  he'll  state, 

A  fact  you'll  realize  with  sorrow, 
The  turtle  of  to-day — sad  fate — 

Becomes  the  soup  of  grim  to-morrow  ! 
Convinced  of  this,  you'll  quickly  know, 
The  world  is  but  a  fleeting  show 
And  all  fades  quickly  here  below  ! 


ON  PATRICK'S  STREAM  23 


ON    PATRICK'S   STREAM 


Upon  the  River,  where  sedges  shiver, 

And  willows  quiver,  you  take  your  ease  : 
Upon  the  River,  where  ripples  shimmer 

While  sunshine's  dimmer  beneath  the  trees  ! 
Where  blue  skies  glimmer  and  leaves  are  singing 

Sweet  fancies  bringing,  in  leafy  lays 
Devoid  of  hurry  and  care  and  flurry 

A  nd  ceaseless  worry — in  Summer  Days  ! 


IN  Summer  Days  that  light  canoe, 

You  soon  will  find  can  carry  two  ! 
As  glimmered  gleams  around  it  play, 
A  lazy  trip  you  would  essay, 

And  take  a  laughing  lass  as  crew  ! 

Her  voice  is  low,  her  eyes  are  blue, 

She  loves  to  navigate  with  you 
Secluded  leafy  water-ways — 
In  Summer  Days. 

The  River  broad  you  quite  eschew, 

But  Patrick's  Stream  meander  through  : 


24  ON  PATRICK'S  STREAM 

How  short  appears  the  longest  day  ! 
Because  you  have  so  much  to  say, 
Half  whispered  in  sedge-shaded  bays- 
In  Summer  Days  1 

In  Summer  Days  !    Ah  !  life  is  sweet ! 
For  you  have  found  a  choice  retreat, 

Where  you  can  calmly  rusticate 

By  stream-lapped  lawns,  and  meditate, 
Leaf-shaded  from  the  broiling  heat. 
The  waters  ripple  cool  and  fleet, 
Your  situation's  bad  to  beat — 

'Neath  leaves  as  clear  as  chrysoprase, 

In  Summer  Days. 
Perchance  it  would  be  indiscreet 
Your  silly  nothings  to  repeat, 

When,  quite  regardless  of  your  fate, 

You  revel  in  a  tete-d-tete  ! 

And  laugh  and  chatter,  love  and  laze- 
In  Summer  Days  ! 


THE    "RED  LION"   LAWN  25 


THE   "RED   LION"   LAWN 

On  the  velvety  turf,  by  the  side  of  the  stream, 
It  is  pleasant  to  sit  in  the  sunshine  and  dream  ! 

AT  Henley,  away  from  the  turmoil  of  town, 

Away  from  its  hustle  and  hurry, 
You  put  on  your  flannels  and  get  your  hands  brown, 

Forgetting  all  ennui  and  worry  ! 
When  Goodwood  is  done  and  the  Season  is  o'er, 

"Tis  pleasant  the  River  to  ply  on, 
Or  lounge  on  the  lawn,  free  from  trouble  and  bore, 
At  the  "  Lion  "  ! 

'Tis  a  finely  toned,  picturesque,  sunshiny  place, 

Recalling  a  dozen  old  stories  ; 
With  a  fine  British,  good-natured,  ruddy-hued  face, 

Suggesting  old  wines  and  old  Tories  : 
Ah,  many's  the  magnum  of  rare  crusted  port, 

Of  vintage  no  one  could  cry  fie  on, 
Has  been  drunk  by  good  men  of  the  old-fashioned 

sort 

At  the  "  Lion  "  ! 


26  THE   "RED  LION"  LAWN 

O,  sweet  is  the  exquisite  lime-scented  breeze 
Awaft  o'er  the  Remenham  reaches  ! 

While  lullabies  lurk  in  the  music  of  trees — 
The  concert  of  poplars  and  beeches  ! 

Shall  I  go  for  a  row,  or  lounge  in  a  punt, 
The  stream — half  asleep — throw  a  fly  on  ? 

Or  watch  merry  children  feed  cygnets  in  front 
Of  the  "  Lion  "  ? 

I  see  drifting  by  such  a  smart  little  crew, 

Bedight  in  most  delicate  colours, 
In  ivory-white  and  forget-me-not  blue — 

A  couple  of  pretty  girl-scullers. 
A  laughing  young  lassie,  in  shortest  of  frocks— 

A  nice  little  nautical  scion — 

The  good  ship  she  steers,  like  a  clever  young  "  cox, 
Past  the  "  Lion  "  ! 

I  lazily  muse  and  I  smoke  cigarettes, 
While  rhymes  I  together  am  stringing  ; 

I  listen  and  nod  to  the  dreamy  duets 
The  girls  on  the  first  floor  are  singing. 

The  sunshine  is  hot  and  the  summer  breeze  sighs, 
There's  scarcely  a  cloudlet  the  sky  on — 

Ah  !   were  it  but  cooler,  how  I'd  moralize 
At  the  "  Lion  "  ! 


THE   "RED  LION"  LAWN  27 

But  who  can  be  thoughtful,  or  lecture,  or  preach, 

While  Harry  is  flirting  with  Ella, 
Or  the  red  lips  of  Rosie  pout  over  a  peach, 

Half  hid  by  her  snowy  umbrella  ? 
The  Infant  is  drifting  down  in  her  canoe, 

The  Rector  his  cob  canters  by  on  ; 
The  church  clock  is  chiming  a  quarter-past  two, 
Near  the  "  Lion  "  ! 

Shall  I  drop  off  to  sleep,  or  moon  here  all  day, 

And  drowsily  finish  my  ballad  ? 
No  !     "  Luncheon  is  ready  !  "  I  hear  some  one  say  ; 

"  A  lobster,  a  chicken,  a  salad  "  : 
A  cool  silver  cup  of  the  beadiest  ale, 

The  white  table-cloth  I  descry  on — 
So  clearly  'tis  time  I  concluded  my  tale 
Of  the  "  Lion  "  ! 


28  A    CAPITAL    CREW 


A   CAPITAL   CREW 


The  Crew  of  the  Otter — with  wonder  you'll  scan, 
And  long  for  my  place  in  the  trim-built  randan  ! 
There  is  Lucy  for  Sculls,  for  Stroke  there  is  Loo, 
With  Gertie  for  Bow,  just  a  capital  crew. 
As  we  swiftly  flash  by — you'll  no  doubt  envy  my  lot 
While  I  lounge  on  the  cushions  and  act  as  their  pilot ! 


A  CAPITAL  Crew  !     What  good  spirits  and  fun  ! 

List  to  the  laughter  ecstatic  ! 
See  how  the  oar-blades  flash  bright  in  the  sun, 

Scattering  spherules  prismatic  ! 
A  long  stroke  and  true, 
And  they  pull  it  well  through, 
There  can't  be  a  doubt  they're  a  Capital  Crew  ! 

Gaze  upon  Sculls,  with  her  radiant  smile, 
Notice  her  "  smartness  of  feather," 

Excellent  form  and  her  neatness  of  style, 
See  how  the  Crew  swing  together  ! 


A    CAPITAL    CREW  29 

For  any  one  who, 

Had  the  luck  to  review, 

Their  efforts  would  vote  them  a  Capital  Crew  ! 

Bow,  you  may  notice,  is  not  much  inclined 

To  suffer  from  over-exertion  : 
Often  she  pauses,  I  think  you  will  find, 

For  chatter  or  other  diversion  ! 
But  give  her  the  cue, 
Then  her  duty  she'll  do, 
As  well  as  the  rest  of  this  Capital  Crew  ! 

Stroke — energetic  and  graceful  you'll  own — 

Carols  'mid  rhythmical  plashes, 
Sweet  barcarolles  in  a  sweet  undertone, 

While  the  swift  current  she  lashes  ! 
From  Cricklade  to  Kew, 
I  am  certain  that  you 
Could  ne'er  hope  to  find  such  a  Capital  Crew  ! 


30         THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES 


THE  PRAIRIES  OF  THE  THAMES 


Then  as  the  River,  seaward,  growing  wide, 
The  Prairies  you  behold  on  either  side  ! 


FROM  Cliffe  churchyard  there's  no  doubt  you 
Enjoy  a  most  delightful  view  : 
For  from  this  eminence  we  gaze 
Across  the  meads  where  cattle  graze ; 
Right  o'er  the  plain  our  view's  complete 
Of  grassy  swamp  and  shining  fleet. 
While  o'er  the  saltings,  mud  and  sand 
We  see  the  gleaming  Thames  expand  ! 
The  Lower  Hope  winds  round  the  lea, 
The  Sea  Reach  hastens  to  the  sea  ; 
The  marsh,  which  I  the  Prairie  call, 
A  wondrous  foreground  makes  for  all. 
A  wealth  of  colour  'twill  unfold, 
Now  grey  and  buff — now  green  and  gold  ! 


THE  PRAIRIES  OF  THE    THAMES        31 

The  prospect  is  of  boundless  range, 
A  scene  of  never-ending  change ; 
As  long  cloud-shadows  come  and  go, 
While  sunbeams  flicker  to  and  fro  ; 
And  rays  of  glory  freely  shed 
On  sails  white,  tawny,  brown  and  red  ; 
Or  glitter  as  the  waters  glide, 
And  gild  the  dimples  of  the  tide  ! 
Perchance  you  note,  when  gazing  o'er, 
Thames  Haven  on  the  Essex  shore : 
And  far  away — all  shimmered  green — 
The  Isle  of  Canvey  may  be  seen  .  .  . 
We've  done  the  panorama,  so 
For  lunch  to  the  "  Black  Bull  "  we'll  go  ! 
Cold  lamb,  we  find,  awaits  us  there — 
While  fragrant  mint-sauce  scents  the  air — 
With  crisp  fresh  salad,  mixed  with  art, 
And  cream-anointed  cherry  tart ! 
How  grateful  to  the  pilgrim's  eye 
Are  those  big  tankards  standing  by  ! 
Brimmed  up  with  honest  Kentish  ale, 
Cool,  beady,  bright,  pellucid,  pale. 
Salt  breezes,  from  the  Nore,  incite 
A  healthy  noontide  appetite : 
Thus  we  enjoy  our  lunch  with  zest 
And  take  a  well-earned  midday  rest ! 


32         THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES 

Then  much  refreshed,  we  take  our  way 
Through  leafy  lanes  this  lovely  day  : 
Down  hill  we  stroll — and  smoke  our  pipe — 
By  orchards  red  with  apples  ripe, 
By  poplar  grove,  by  hedge  of  thorn, 
By  rippled  fields  of  yellow  corn  : 
Down,  down,  we  march  till  we  attain 
The  level  of  the  Prairie  plain. 
And  here,  half  hid  by  laughing  leaves, 
A  frowning  fortress  one  perceives  ; 
Where  John  de  Cobham  lived,  you  know, 
At  least  five  centuries  ago. 
A  castle,  where  brave  deeds  were  wrought, 
Where  in  days  past  they  fiercely  fought : 
But  now  the  moat  is  nearly  dry, 
The  drawbridge  ne'er  is  raised  on  high  ; 
No  longer  the  portcullis  falls, 
But  rusts  within  its  grooved  walls  ! 

Anon  an  ancient  church  one  sees 
Which  long  has  braved  the  briny  breeze. 
'Tis  like  a  soldier  stern  and  harsh 
Who  guards  the  gateway  of  the  marsh  : 
A  sentry,  who,  so  it  appears, 
Has  been  on  guard  four  hundred  years  ! 


THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES        33 

A  faithful  servant  by  the  way, 

Grown,  in  the  service,  grim  and  grey  ; 

And  one,  whom  you  perchance  may  find, 

A  smaller  marsh  may  call  to  mind  ; 

A  wider  River,  doubtless,  he 

May  treasure  in  his  memory, 

When  up  the  Thames,  trim  fore  and  aft, 

The  dauntless  Dutchmen  sailed  their  craft  I 

The  church  now  seems  neglected,  and 

Quite  lonely  on  the  swarded  strand  : 

By  Time  forgot,  forsook  by  Tide, 

It  watches  o'er  the  marshes  wide  ! 

The  while  salt  breezes  of  the  sea 

Come  sighing  in  a  minor  key  ! 

Beyond — the  Prairie  you  may  see, 
Poetic  in  its  mystery  ! 
By  River  spurned,  scarce  owned  by  land, 
A  vast  expanse,  bright,  breezy,  grand  ! 
The  Thames  one  scarcely  can  define 
But  trace  it  by  a  thin  grey  line  ; 
While  ships,  that  in  the  distance  pass, 
Seem  sailing  through  the  waving  grass  ; 
A  grass  that  shows  us  many  grades 
Of  verdure  in  its  bending  blades  ; 
And  fails  to  hide  the  golden  thread 
D 


34         THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES 

That  marks  some  wayward  streamlet's  bed  ; 
Revealing  in  the  gleaming  flood, 
An  archipelago  of  mud  ! 

Here's  peace  with  silence,  wondrous  sweet, 
A  silence  often  incomplete  ; 
But  quaintly  broken  here  and  there, 
Amid  the  balmy  autumn  air, 
By  whisper  of  the  fluttered  leaf 
Or  plover's  note  so  shrill  and  brief ; 
By  plaintive  call  of  heron,  eke, 
The  red-beaked  sea-gull's  wailing  shriek. 
While  faint  wave-music  seems  to  me 
To  haunt  the  flowers  of  the  sea  ! 
The  campion  and  the  glasswort  bright, 
The  purslane  and  the  crimson  blite, 
With  snowy  blossoms  of,  alas  ! 
The  sadly  libelled  scurvy-grass  ; 
Which  flourish  here,  all  in  their  time, 
Amid  the  ooze  and  salt  and  slime. 

This  lonesome  church  I  apprehend 
Is,  after  all,  an  old,  old  friend  ! 
And  as  we  stroll  the  graveyard  o'er 
We  fancy  we've  been  here  before  : 
That  hoary  tower  familiar  seems, 


THE  PRAIRIES  OF  THE    THAMES        35 

Now  gladdened  by  the  sunny  gleams. 
No  clock  is  there,  so  none  can  see 
How  goes  mankind's  arch-enemy  : 
Where  golden  numerals  should  shine 
Now  ivy-tendrils  cling  and  twine  ! 
That  shattered  tomb  we  seem  to  know, 
Those  tiny  graves  all  in  a  row, 
The  grassy  mounds,  the  rustling  trees, 
That  lisp  responses  in  the  breeze  I 
The  headstones  grey  with  lichen  rime, 
The  epitaphs  obscured  by  Time — 
All  these  we  know.    It  seems  as  though 
We  dreamed  about  them  years  ago  ! 

We  soon  discover,  do  we  not  ? 
This  is,  in  point  of  fact,  the  spot 
Where  Dickens'  story  was  begun — 
"  Great  Expectations  "  Chapter  One. 
Here  is,  indeed,  the  sacred  pile 
Where  Wopsle  "  gave  it  out  "  in  style ; 
And  on  that  rugged  tombstone  Pip 
Lay  trembling  in  the  convict's  grip : 
Who  fiercely  said,  beyond  a  doubt, 
He'd  have  Pip's  "  heart  and  liver  out  " — 
Unless  he  made  it  worth  his  while 
To  fetch  "  some  wittles  and  a  file  "  ! 


36         THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES 

You'll  find  close  handy,  if  you  please, 
The  village  'mid  the  alder  trees  ; 
The  blacksmith's  house  you'll  see  near  by, 
But  sparks  no  more  from  anvil  fly  ! 
Hushed  is  the  blast  and  quenched  the  blaze 
That  cheered  the  forge  in  former  days  : 
No  more  are  hammer-changes  rung, 
And  e'en  "  Old  Clem  "  is  left  unsung  ! 
The  "  Jolly  Bargemen,"  I  opine, — 
Though  trading  'neath  another  sign — 
Is  doubtless  very  much  the  same 
As  'twas  when  Mr.  J 'aggers  came  ; 
And  to  the  rustics  talked  awhile, 
In  very  best  Old  Bailey  style  ! 
'Tis  here,  it  may  be  truly  said, 
"  Great  Expectations  "  should  be  read  ! 
Not  only  can  you  read  the  tale, 
But  live  it  in  this  peaceful  vale  ! 
So  vividly  one  seems  to  see — 
Amid  the  real  scenery — 
The  people  of  that  wondrous  book: 
Joe  Gargery  and  Pumblechook, 
The  clever  Sergeant  and  also 
Old  Orlick,  Biddy,  Mrs.  Joe  I 
With  all  the  fun  and  tragedy 
In  Pip's  romantic  history  ! 


THE  PRAIRIES   OF  THE    THAMES        37 

As  slowly  sinks  the  sun  to  rest 
'Mid  glow  and  glory  of  the  west, 
Which  quickly  changing  doth  unfold 
A  wealth  of  orange,  crimson,  gold  ! 
As  faint  rose-tinted  cloudlets  rise 
To  flutter  o'er  the  eastern  skies, 
Across  the  fields  we  slowly  pass, 
While  shadows  lengthen  on  the  grass. 
Charles  Dickens  often  came  this  way 
And  trod  the  path  we  tread  to-day. 
E'en  now  the  spot  seems  unto  you 
Half  haunted  by  the  folk  he  drew ; 
For  as  we  pace  the  greensward  o'er, 
We  hear  the  story  told  once  more ; 
Which,  on  the  marsh,  begins  in  glee 
And  ends  there  in  a  tragedy  ! 

Ah  !  me,  what  gratitude  is  ours 
To  one  whose  overwhelming  powers, 
Whose  subtle  and  distinguished  art, 
O'erflows  with  sympathy  and  heart ! 
Who  gilds  with  an  eternal  ray 
The  life  and  folk  of  every  day  ; 
Who  throws  a  glamour  o'er  the  tide, 
And  glorifies  the  country-side  : 
Who  charms  the  most  unlikely  plots 


38        THE  PRAIRIES  OF    THE    THAMES 

And  changes  them  to  hallowed  spots  ! 
With  shrines  that  soon  become  the  rage 
And  subject  of  a  pilgrimage  ! 
The  Great  Magician  !     It  is  he, 
Whose  humour,  pathos,  charity 
Have,  by  his  magic,  made,  you  see, 
Romance  more  real  than  History  ! 

We've  Higham  reached  !    The  sun  is  down  ! 
So  here  we  take  the  train  to  town  ; 
We've  had  a  country  ramble,  and 
A  pleasant  peep  of  Dickens  land  ! 


EASY  ALL!  39 


EASY   ALL! 


'Nealh  the  awning  you  sit,  and  may  smoke  if  you 

please, 
While  the  Thames  Panorama  you  view  at  your  ease  ! 


ON  board  the  Steamer  of  Salter,  down  stream  are 

you  quietly  steaming, 
With  bright  panorama  in  view — in  sweet  summer 

weather  you're  dreaming ; 
The  day  is  before  you  and  you  are  doing  your  best 

to  get  through  it, 
You've  naught  in  the  world  now  to  do  and  feel 

you're  quite  equal  to  do  it ! 
For  here  you  may  sit  at  your  ease,  the  while  at  the 

prospect  you're  gazing, 
And  if  you  are  anxious  to  laze,  may  take  a  full 

measure  of  lazing  ! 

I'm  sure  you  will  have  no  desire  such  happy  con- 
ditions to  alter, 
As  blithely  you  bask  in  the  sun,  aboard  of  the 

Steamer  of  Salter  ! 


40  EASY  ALL! 

Of  Care  you  take  leave  for  the  day  and  revel  in  lack 

of  employment ; 
You've  not  the  least  trouble  at  locks — they  do  not 

prevent  your  enjoyment ! 
And  no  one  ejaculates  "  Time !  "  and  none  at  your 

"  feather  "  is  jeering, 
Or  grumbles  at  absence  of  style,  or  slangs  you  for 

errors  in  steering  ! 
Or  talks  about  "  trimming  the  boat "  or  ventures  to 

hint  you're  a  duffer — 
In   fact    you're    delightfully    free   from   ills    ev'ry 

oarsman  must  surfer  ! 
Likewise  you  may  leave,  if  you're  bored,  wherever 

the  vessel's  a  halter ; 
For  trips  long  or  short  you  may  take  aboard  of  the 

Steamer  of  Salter  ! 


Without  any  bustle  or  noise  you  make  a  delightful 

progression. 
And  quietly  gliding  along,  see  pictures  in  endless 

succession  : 
How  lovely  and  cool  is  the  stream,  with  countless 

reflections  a-quiver, 
The  villas  embowered  in  trees,  and  lawns  sloping 

down  to  the  River  : 


EASY  ALL!  41 

The    gardens,    the    waterside    inns,    and    ancient 

riparian  churches. 
The  groves  of  the  elm  and  the  beech,  the  poplars, 

the  willows,  the  birches  : 
The  people  you  see  at  the  locks  and  boaters  should 

claim  your  attention, 
The  girls  in  canoes  and  in  punts  and  launches,  allow 

me  to  mention, 
Form  subjects  for  study  and  you  at  studies  like 

these  will  not  falter — 
They  add  to  the  charm  of  the  day,  aboard  of  the 

Steamer  of  Saltcr  ! 


42  DRIFTING  DOWN 


DRIFTING   DOWN 


A  h  !  long  shall  I  cherish,  through  dreary  December, 
The  flash  of  the  oar  and  the  perfume  of  hay  : 

The  twilight,  the  weir-song  I  long  shall  remember, 
That  exquisite  even  we  drifted  away  ! 


DRIFTING  down  in  the  grey-green  twilight, 

O,  the  scent  of  the  new- mown  hay  ! 
The  oars  drip  in  the  mystic  shy  light, 

O,  the  charm  of  the  dying  day  ! 
While  fading  flecks  of  bright  opalescence 

But  faintly  freckle  a  saffron  sky. 
The  stream  flows  on  with  superb  quiescence, 
The  breeze  is  hushed  to  the  softest  sigh 
Drifting  down  in  the  sweet  still  weather, 

O,  the  fragrance  of  fair  July  1 
Love,  my  Love,  when  we  drift  together, 
O,  how  fleetly  the  moments  fly  1 


DRIFTING  DOWN 


Drifting  down  on  the  dear  old  River, 

O,  the  music  that  interweaves  ! 
The  ripples  run  and  the  sedges  shiver, 

O,  the  song  of  the  lazy  leaves  ! 
And  far-off  sounds — for  the  night  so  clear  is — 

Awake  the  echoes  of  bygone  times  ; 
The  muffled  roar  of  the  distant  weir  is 

Cheered  by  the  clang  of  the  village  chimes. 
Drifting  down  in  the  cloudless  weather, 

O,  how  short  is  the  summer  day  ! 
Love,  my  Love,  when  we  drift  together, 
O,  how  quickly  we  drift  away  ! 

Drifting  down  as  the  night  advances, 

O,  the  calm  of  the  starlit  skies  ! 
Eyelids  droop  o'er  the  half-shy  glances, 
O,  the  light  in  those  blue-grey  eyes  ! 
A  winsome  maiden  is  sweetly  singing 

A  dreamy  song  in  a  minor  key  ; 
Her  clear  low  voice  and  its  tones  are  bringing 
A  mingled  melody  back  to  me. 

Drifting  down  in  the  clear  calm  weather, 

O,  how  sweet  is  the  maiden's  song  ! 
Love,  my  Love,  when  we  drift  together, 
O,  how  swiftly  we  drift  along  1 


44  A   SUMMER   COMEDY 


A   SUMMER   COMEDY 


A  very  old  story,  here  told  between  Two, 
A  very  old  story  that  ever  seems  new  ! 


ACT  I 

AT    THE    MITRE 

A  CLOUDLESS  sky,  a  summer  day, 
A  snow-clad  table  in  the  bay, 
Bedecked  with  roses,  white  and  red, 
And  lunch  for  two  young  people  spread. 
While  through  the  window,  open  wide, 
They  watch  the  River  onward  glide  ; 
And  try  the  lobster  mayonnaise 
Or  trifle  with  compote  de  fraises, 
And  chatter,  whisper,  jest  and  laugh, 
As  they  the  ice-bound  hock-cup  quaff ! 
They  revel  both  in  glad  to-day, 
Be  sad  to-morrow  what  it  may  : 


A   SUMMER   COMEDY  45 

What  hope,  what  trust,  what  love,  what  joy 
Seem  shared  between  this  girl  and  boy  ! 
Who  find  this  room  a  snug  resort — 
In  summer  days  at  Hampton  Court ! 

ACT  II 

IN    WILLIAM  THE  THIRD'S    STATE    BEDROOM 

Tis  here  our  friends  find  calm  retreat 
Ensconced  within  the  window-seat. 
The  fountain  gleams,  the  gardens  show 
A  blaze  of  colour  down  below  ! 
Here,  while  the  summer  zephyr  sighs, 
They  strive  to  read  each  others'  eyes, 
And,  fondly  gazing,  soon  make  sure 
Both  wear  their  love  in  miniature  ! 
'Tis  thus  she  fails  to  note,  you  know, 
The  ceiling  wrought  by  Verrio  ; 
Or  Gibbons'  carvings,  or  the  rare 
Ornate  old  clock  by  Daniel  Quare. 

Nor  will  her  friend  regard  at  all 
The  pictured  beauties  on  the  wall : 
The  charms  of  Frances,  Anne,  or  Jane, 
Sir  Peter  limned  for  him  in  vain  ! 


46  A   SUMMER   COMEDY 

He  thinks  the  magic  of  Millais 
Alone  adapted  to  portray 
The  tenderness  of  certain  eyes — 
Reflecting  sleepy  summer  skies — 
Those  poutful  lips,  those  dimples  eke 
The  sweet  carnation  of  her  cheek, 
And  subtle  charm  of  sunny  tress. 
Within  the  sombre  oak  recess. 
Though  Lely's  beauties  here  disport — 
She  holds  her  own  at  Hampton  Court ! 


ACT  III 

BENEATH    THE    LIMES 

The  day  is  warm.     Just  now  the  hour 
Of  Five  clanged  out  from  Wolsey's  Tower  ! 
And  presently  you  see  those  Two 
Come  strolling  down  the  avenue  ; 
That  avenue  of  fragrant  limes 
They  planted  in  the  Stuart  times. 
But  now  you  find  a  gentle  breeze 
Awakes  the  music  of  the  trees ; 
While  sweet  leaf-lyrics  lend  their  aid 
To  dreaming  in  the  chequered  shade  ! 


A   SUMMER   COMEDY  47 

I  wonder  if  they  either  know 

That  overhead  grows  mistletoe  ? 

And  if  they  knew,  think  you  they'd  try 

Old  Christmas  customs  in  July  ? 

But  this  I  can't  divulge  to  you — 

And  wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  knew  ! 

They  linger  long,  though  time  seems  short, 

Beneath  the  limes  at  Hampton  Court  1 


48  LALEHAM  FERRY 


LALEHAM   FERRY 


In  joyaunce  of  June,  how  the  time  flies  away — 
How  bright,  but  how  brief  is  the  long  summer  day  ! 


THE  stream  runs  fleet,  the  air  is  sweet, 

The  clouds  almost  bereft  of  blushes ; 
The  balmy  breeze  scarce  stirs  the  trees, 

And  fails  to  bend  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
And  as  we  glide  at  eventide — 

How  sweet  the  voice  of  passing  maiden  ! 
The  roar  of  weir — now  far,  now  near — 

The  laughter  in  the  punt,  lass-laden  1 
The  tender  song  that  cheers  along, 

The  brown-faced  sculler  in  the  wherry  !- 
Gone  is  the  sun,  the  day  is  done 
At  Laleham  Ferry  ! 

We  drift  away,  as  fades  the  day — 
The  oars  in  the  twilight  shimmer — 

The  night  draws  nigh,  the  dappled  sky 
Is  ev'ry  moment  growing  dimmer 


LALEHAM   FERRY  49 

While  glinting  bright,  some  village  light 
Is  gleaming  gladly  in  the  gloaming. 

The  boat's  made  fast,  we  land  at  last, 
And  bid  adieu  to  River-roaming  ! 

The  trip  is  o'er,  we  step  ashore — 
With  feelings  the  reverse  of  merry — 

And  with  a  sigh,  we  say  good-bye 
At  Laleham  Ferry  ! 


SO  HUNGERFORD  BRIDGE 


HUNGERFORD   BRIDGE 


All  London's  off,  say  more  or  less, 
By  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 


WE'RE  here  at  Charing  Cross  again, 

To  catch  the  Continental  Train  ! 
Amid  the  hurry,  noise  and  hustle, 
The  bawling  "  By  yer  leave  "  and  bustle  ! 

Indeed,  it  is  a  varied  sight, 

Beneath  the  pale,  electric  light. 

What  babbling  of  boys  and  porters, 
And  shouting  of  the  luggage  sorters  ! 

While  anxious  tourists  blame  and  bless 

The  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 

Although  it's  nearly  Nine  o'clock, 
Still  people  to  the  platform  flock  ! 
Now  London's  dull,  the  Season  over, 
They  flit  from  Charing  Cross  to  Dover ; 
They  take  their  tickets,  pay  their  fare, 
They're  booked  right  through  to  everywhere 


HUNGERFORD  BRIDGE 


To  lead  a  life  of  hopeless  worry, 

With  Bradshaw,  Baedeker,  and  Murray. 

And  yet  they  hail  with  eagerness 

The  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 

Just  think  of  toil  by  rail  and  boat, 

And  cackle  at  the  table  d'hote  ; 

Of  coin  of  somewhat  doubtful  mintage, 
And  wine  of  very  gruesome  vintage  ; 

Of  passes  steep  that  try  the  lungs, 

And  chattering  in  unknown  tongues ; 
Of  Rhenish  hills,  Italian  fountains, 
Of  forests  dark,  and  snowy  mountains — 

And  change  achieved  with  much  distress 

By  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 

"Tis  Nine  o'clock,  save  minutes  ten — 

Here  come  two  fur-capped,  foreign  men; 
All  in  a  fluster  at  the  wicket 
Because  they  cannot  find  the  ticket ; 

And  over  there  may  be  espied 

A  pretty  little  two  days'  bride. 

How  bored  she'll  be  with  six  weeks'  spooning 
How  wearied  with  the  honeymooning  ! 

Yet  lots  go,  leaving  no  address, 

By  Continental  Mail  Express  I 


52  HUNGERFORD  BRIDGE 

Just  Nine  !    The  baggage  is  complete, 

The  last  arrival  in  his  seat ; 

The  porters'  labours  almost  ended, 
The  latest  evening  paper  vended. 

A  whistle  blows,  the  guard  says  "  Right !  " 

We're  off  due  southward  on  our  flight — 
With  panting,  steamy  sibilation — 
With  clank  and  scroop  we  quit  the  station 

And  glad  to  leave,  we  must  confess, 

By  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 


Ah  !   were  it  daylight,  what  a  view 

Would  be  unfolded  here  to  you  ! 

You'd  find  when  eastward  you  were  gazing 
The  prospect  was  indeed  amazing  ! 

So  full  of  light  and  air,  I  ween, 

That  Turner  might  have  limned  the  scene. 
The  grand  old  River,  swiftly  flowing,} 
The  Greenwich  steamers,  coming,  going  : 

The  leafy  curve  of  avenue 

From  Hungerford  to  Waterloo  ; 

Its  graceful  bridge  the  tideway  crossing, 
Stray  swans  beneath  the  arches  tossing. 

Beyond  in  classical  array 

Is  Chambers'  pile,  all  silver-grey  ; 


HUNGERFORD  BRIDGE  53 

With  countless  spires  the  background's 
teeming, 

Where  golden  vanes  are  ever  gleaming  ; 
And  far  away,  where  sunshine  falls, 
You  have  a  vision  of  Saint  Paul's  : 

Its  matchless  dome  o'er  all  transcending — 

A  finish  to  the  picture  lending  1 
All  this  you  miss  at  night,  I  guess. 
By  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 

But  o'er  the  latticed  bridge  we  boom 
And  note  the  glitter  and  the  gloom  ; 

The  "  Cecil  "  windows,  glinting,  glowing, 
The  lights  within  the  "  Savoy  "  showing : 
While  here  and  there  one  clearly  sees 
Lamps  gleam  like  glow-worms  'mid  the  trees  ; 
And  countless  tiny  flames  and  flashes 
The  River  mocks  with  golden  splashes  : 
While  on  the  water  may  be  seen 
Stray  glints  of  scarlet  and  of  green. 
We  scarcely  can  refrain  from  grieving, 
For  London  and  the  Thames  we're  leaving  ! 
As  rapidly  we  now  progress 
By  Continental  Mail  Express  ! 


54  C EC  IDS  SONG 


CECIL'S   SONG 


And  as  she  pushed  her  punt  along 
A  laughing  lassie  sang  this  song  ! 


MY  heart  is  as  light  as  a  feather — 

I'm  free  as  a  bird  on  the  wing  ! 
To-day — in  the  radiant  weather — 

How  merry  the  songs  that  I  sing  1 
I  scare  away  sadness  and  sorrow, 

I  laugh  and  I  chatter  and  play, 
Forgetful  of  gloomy  to-morrow — 

In  bright,  sunny,  laughing  to-day  ! 

The  River's  a  rapture  of  beauty — 

The  skies  of  to-day  are  so  blue, 
And  pleasure  seems  naught  but  a  duty- 

'Tis  clearly  our  duty  to  do  1 
Although  we  may  know  to  our  sorrow, 

That  beauty  and  blossom  decay — 
In  dreary  domain  of  to-morrow — 

They  bloom  in  the  charm  of  to-day  I 


CECIL'S  SONG  55 


O,  life's  full  of  love  and  of  leisure — 

This  world  is  enchantingly  fair  ! 
To-day  we  have  friendship  and  pleasure, 

To-morrow  come  foes  and  despair  ! 
To  guard  against  sadness  and  sorrow, 

I  think  I  may  venture  to  say, 
In  case  we  may  quarrel  to-morrow, 

Let's  love  one  another  to-day  I 


56  A   RIVER  NOCTURNE 


A   RIVER   NOCTURNE 


The  flash  of  the  oar  in  the  silvery  light, 

The  sweetness  of  song  in  the  still  summer  night ! 


A  WONDERFUL  night  on  the  River, 

A  night  just  to  drift  and  to  dream, 
While  silvery  ripples  a-quiver, 

Whirl  by  to  the  song  of  the  stream  ! 
The  ruddy  ripe  lips  of  fair  Gladys 

Are  curving  with  carolling  sighs, 
Now  merry  her  voice  and  now  sad  is, 

And  witching  her  fathomless  eyes  ! 
The  ballads  that  bask  in  the  billow — 

Half  whispered  in  winds  from  afar — 
With  lyrics  that  lurk  in  the  willow, 

Are  haunting  her  gleeful  guitar  ! 

What  melody  lissom  white  fingers 

Evoke  as  she  lazily  sings  ; 
Just  list  as  she  lovingly  lingers 

In  ecstasy  over  the  strings  1 


A   RIVER  NOCTURNE  57 

And  warbles  an  autumn  cantata 

To  glorify  sun-tinted  sheaves, 
Or  twines  in  a  tuneful  toccata 

A  lyrical  lilt  of  green  leaves  ! 
A  medley  of  mirth  and  of  sadness 

Re-echoes  from  stream  and  from  scar : 
A  glamour  of  gloom  and  of  gladness 

Ring  out  from  her  magic  guitar  ! 

She's  daring  and  often  capricious — 

Quick-changing  from  grave  unto  gay — 
The  waltz  that  is  simply  delicious, 

To  grand  solemn  music  gives  way ; 
The  light  tarantella  entrancing 

Is  merged  in  the  grave  minuet ; 
Then,  sweetly  at  Sullivan  glancing, 

With  Gounod  she  loves  to  coquet, 
She'll  sing  you  the  songs  of  the  season — 

So  sung,  how  delightful  they  are  ! — 
And  revels  in  rhymes  without  reason, 

When  twanging  her  merry  guitar  ! 

In  redolent  haytime  when  dreaming — 

Made  glad  by  the  silvery  light, 
On  ripples  and  rushes  bright  gleaming, 

In  sweetness  of  still  summer  night ! 


58  A   RIVER  NOCTURNE 

When  wail  of  the  weir  sempiternal 

Is  lost  in  the  lulling  of  leaves, 
And  the  rhythm  of  rest  is  supernal — 

An  eloquent  nocturne  she  weaves  ! 
A  tenderly  sweet  inspiration, 

Where  melody  seems  to  unbar 
A  wealth  of  harmonic  sensation — 

That  leaps  from  her  thrilling  guitar  ! 


\ 

MUCH  RAIN  59 


MUCH    RAIN 


It  makes  me  mad  as  any  hatter, 
To  hear  incessant  pluvial  patter 


BESIDE  the  River  in  the  rain — 
The  sopping  sky  is  leaden  grey — 

I  watch  the  drops  run  down  the  pane  ! 

Assuming  the  Tapleyan  vein — 
I  smoke  the  very  blackest  clay, 

Beside  the  River  in  the  rain  ! 

With  ceaseless  downpour  for  refrain  ; 

The  while  I  drone  a  dismal  lay  ; 
I  watch  the  drops  race  down  the  pane. 
I've  gazed  upon  big  fishes  slain, 

That  on  the  walls  make  brave  display, 
Beside  the  River  in  the  rain. 

It  will  not  clear,  'tis  very  plain, 

The  rain  will  last  throughout  the  day — 
I  watch  the  drops  flit  down  the  pane. 


60  MUCH  RAIN 


And  almost  feel  my  boundless  brain 

At  last  shows  signs  of  giving  way  ; 
Beside  the  River  in  the  rain. 

No  longer  will  I  here  remain, 
No  more  will  I  consent  to  stay, 

And  watch  the  drops  flash  down  the  pane  ! 

I  feel  I'm  growing  quite  insane, 
And  lunacy  pervades  my  lay — 

Beside  the  River  in  the  rain  ! 


THE  HAUNTED  STEPS  61 


THE   HAUNTED   STEPS 


They're  scarcely  changed,  you'll  like  to  know, 
Since  Dickens  limned  them  years  ago  ! 


DOWN  the  steps,  so  grim  and  grimy, 

Over  on  the  Surrey  side  : 
Down  the  steps,  so  steep  and  slimy, 

Down  where  the  dark  waters  glide  ! 
Down  beside  the  bridge  of  Rennie — 

Clocks  the  hour  of  midnight  call — 
Tread  we  soft  and  muse  on  many 

Ghosts  that  haunt  the  granite  wall. 
While  the  tide  there  swiftly  flows, 
As  the  current  comes  and  goes — 
'Neath  London  Bridge  ! 

Now  in  tones,  distinct,  sonorous, 
Booms  Saint  Paul's  a  dozen  times  ; 

Followed  by  a  fitful  chorus, 
Echoed  by  belated  chimes. 


62  THE  HAUNTED  STEPS 

Step  by  step  we  reach  the  River 
Running  coldly  at  our  feet, 

Watch  we  then  the  lights  a-quiver 
In  the  tideway  dark  and  fleet. 

List'ning  to  the  lapping  song, 

As  the  stream  speeds  swift  along — 
By  London  Bridge  ! 

Note  we  well  the  broken  glimmer 

Glowing  windows  cast  on  tide ; 
And  the  gas-lamps  growing  dimmer, 

Wind  blown  on  the  other  side. 
See  we  where  the  shadows  darkle — 

Sullen,  solemn,  deep  and  drear, 
Flashing  gleam  and  ruby  sparkle 

Of  the  lantern  on  the  pier. 
Murmuring  in  a  minor  key, 
Ripples  hasten  to  the  sea — 

Through  London  Bridge  ! 

Turn  then  !    See  this  most  effective 
Stepway  from  the  gloomy  night — 

Rising  in  a  long  perspective, 
Merging  into  misty  light ; 

See  the  countless  steps  ascending 
Damp  and  gleamy,  while  they  seem, 


THE  HAUNTED  STEPS  63 

Almost  like  the  never-ending 

Staircase  of  a  troubled  dream  ! 
'Neath  the  arch  the  wavelets  dash, 
O'er  the  granite  buttress  plash- — 
At  London  Bridge. 


As  you  muse  here,  upward  gazing, 

You  quite  easily  may  raise 
Vivid  visions,  most  amazing 

Of  the  ghosts  of  bygone  days  ! 
As  you  gaze,  you'll  see  in  fancy, 

Rose,  with  Mr.  Brownlow,  and — 
Spying  on  poor  hapless  Nancy — 

Noah  lurking  where  you  stand  ! 
While  the  tiny  billows  splurge 
Chanting  'neath  the  arch  a  dirge — 
At  London  Bridge  ! 


Since  Dickens,  with  his  pow'r  magic, 
Limned  the  prologue  to  a  scene — 

Fearsome  in  its  detail  tragic — 
Little  here  is  changed,  I  ween. 

Still  the  steps  seem  steeped  in  sorrow, 
Still  the  waters  whisper  low, 


64  THE  HAUNTED  STEPS 

Of  the  terror  of  to-morrow 

As  they  whispered  long  ago  ! 
Still  the  River  swirls  away 
Babbling  of  a  bygone  day — 

'Neath  London  Bridge  ! 


PART    II 


AT  NEW  BRIDGE  67 


AT   NEW   BRIDGE 


Six  pointed  arches  span  the  tide, 

Five  buttresses  may  be  descried, 

Stalwart  and  solid  :  it  appears 

They've  stemmed  the  stream  six  hundred  years  ! 

So  thus  you  scarcely  need  be  told 

That  New  Bridge  is  immensely  old. 

We  pulled  from  Lechlade,  understand 

The  crew  were  glad  enough  to  land, 

And  at  the  "  May  Busk  "  pause  awhile 

As  they  with  lunch  the  time  beguile. 

Here  Celia  made,  we  can't  forget, 

That  memorable  omelette  ! 

Likewise  a  picture  which  we  may 

Here  do  our  best  to  re-portray  ! 

A  QUAINT  old  kitchen  in  the  quaint  old  inn, 
With  massive  rugged  beams  and  red-tiled  floor ; 
With  ancient  chimney-corner,  where  the  fire 
Glows  clear  and  gleams  upon  the  ash-strewn  hearth  ! 
It  glints  on  oaken  press  and  dishes  blue 
And  sparkles  'mid  the  rosy  copper  pans  ; 


68  AT  NEW  BRIDGE 

It  flickers  on  the  ceiling,  stained  and  scarred, 
And  turns  to  gold  the  pots  of  battered  brass  : 
While  bright  vermilion  gleams  on  fire-dogs 
And  glorifies  the  ornate  chimney-back  ! 
'Twould  form  a  fitting  subject,  it  would  seem, 
For  Metsu,  Ostade,  Teniers  or  De  Hooghe ; 
A  pretty  scene  which  only  serves  to  frame 
A  picture  even  yet  more  beautiful ! 

Behold  the  dainty  damsel  standing  there, 
With  all  her  thought  devoted  to  her  work  ! 
The  while  she  gently  sways  the  hissing  pan 
And  sings  a  blithesome  ditty  to  herself. 
Against  the  background  dark,  in  bold  relief, 
She  stands  defined  in  all  her  girlish  grace  ! 
Clad  in  a  simple  grey-blue  gingham  frock 
So  deftly  fashioned  that  it  half  reveals — 
As  rapidly  she  turns  from  side  to  side — 
The  undulations  of  her  supple  form  ! 

Her   sleeves,    furled   high,    display   her   shapely 

arms — 

So  white  against  the  sunburn  of  her  hands  ; 
Those  subtle  hands,  which  equally  are  skilled 
In  cooking  omelettes  or  in  twanging  lutes  : 


AT  NEW  BRIDGE  69 

Her  pretty  rounded  cheeks  are  flushed  with  flame, 
Which  gleams  amid  her  tresses  closely  coiffed  ; 
It  clothes  with  ruddy  light  her  graceful  arms, 
While  adding  lustre  to  those  deep  grey  eyes  ; 
As  bending  o'er  the  glowing  fire  she  finds 
Her  song  is  finished  and  the  souffl6  done  ! 


70  PLEASANT  QUARTERS 


PLEASANT   QUARTERS 


Pray  here  behold  a  sketch  in  rhyme 
Of  Marlow  in  the  summer-time. 


0  BISHAM  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Quarry  Woods  are  green, 

And  pure  and  sparkling  is  the  air, 
Enchanting  is  the  scene  ! 

1  love  the  music  of  the  weir, 

As  swift  the  stream  runs  down, 
For,  O,  the  water's  deep  and  clear 
That  flows  by  Marlow  town  ! 

When  London's  getting  hot  and  dry, 

And  half  the  Season's  done, 
To  Marlow  you  should  quickly  fly, 

And  bask  there  in  the  sun. 
There  pleasant  quarters  you  may  find- 

The  "  Angler  "  or  the  "  Crown  " 
Will  suit  you  well,  if  you're  inclined 

To  stay  in  Marlow  town. 


PLEASANT  QUARTERS  71 

I  paddle  up  to  Harleyford, 

And  sometimes  I  incline 
To  cushions  take  with  lunch  aboard, 

And  play  with  rod  and  line. 
For  in  a  punt  I  love  to  laze 

And  let  my  face  get  brown  ; 
And  dream  away  the  sunny  days 

By  dear  old  Marlow  town  ! 

I  go  to  luncheon  at  the  Lawn, 

I  muse,  I  sketch,  I  rhyme ; 
I  headers  take  at  early  dawn, 

I  list  to  "  All  Saints'  "  chime. 
And  in  the  River,  flashing  bright, 

Dull  Care  I  strive  to  drown — 
And  get  a  famous  appetite 

At  pleasant  Marlow  town  ! 

So  when,  no  longer,  London  life 

You  feel  you  can  endure, 
Just  quit  its  noise,  its  whirl,  its  strife, 

And  try  the  "  Mario w-cure  !  " 
You'll  smooth  the  wrinkles  on  your  brow 

And  scare  away  each  frown — 
Feel  young  again  once  more,  I  vow, 

At  quaint  old  Marlow  town  ! 


72  PLEASANT  QUARTERS 

Here  Shelley  dreamed  and  thought  and  wrote, 

And  wandered  o'er  the  leas, 
And  sang  and  drifted  in  his  boat 

Beneath  the  Bisham  trees. 
So  let  me  sing — although  I'm  no 

Great  poet  of  renown — 
Of  hours  that  much  too  quickly  go 

At  good  old  Mariow  town  1 


A  FAVOURITE  FROCK  73 


A   FAVOURITE   FROCK 


I  lounge  on  the  lawn,  'ncath  the  sweet-scented  lime. 
Forgetting  engagements,  forgetful  of  tim*  I 
I  sit  and  I  smoke  while  the  River  by  swirls 
And  list  to  the  laughter  and  chatter  of  girls. 
I  sit  here  and  muse  as  the  summer  breeze  sighs, 
Though  frocks  and  their  wearers  may  daxtle  my  eyes. 
It  seems  I've  discovered,  at  least  so  I  think, 

The  gem  of  this  varied  selection  ; 
At  last  I  have  found  the  perfection  of  pink, 

And  likewise  the  Pink  of  Perfection  I 


THOUGH  Sybil  is  sweet  in  diaphanous  white, 

And  Louie  in  lilac's  supernal ; 
Though  Georgie  in  grey  is  a  lasting  delight, 

And  Jennie  a  joy  sempiternal  ! 
Though  Connie's  costume  is  most  charming  to  view — 

Of  course  I  speak  under  correction — 
Not  even  the  vision  of  Bella  in  blue 

Can  equal  the  Pink  of  Perfection  ! 


74  A  FAVOURITE  FROCK 

It  must  not  remind  you  of  raspberry  ice 

Nor  cheek  of  a  milkmaid  or  cotter  ; 
A  lobster-like  redness  is  not  at  all  nice, 

Nor  feverish  glow  of  the  blotter  ; 
It  should  not  recall  a  Bardolphian  nose, 

Nor  yet  a  pomegranate  bisection — 
There  are  pinks  of  all  kinds,  but  only  one  rose 

May  pass  for  the  Pink  of  Perfection  ! 

A  strawberry  crushed,  almost  smothered  in  cream, 

Nearly  matches  the  colour  it  maybe  ; 
The  Jungfrau  just  flushed  with  the  earliest  beam. 

The  hue  of  the  palm  of  a  baby  : 
The  faint,  ruddy  tone  you  may  see  in  a  shell, 

The  blush  in  a  lassie's  complexion — 
All  or  any  of  these,  at  a  glance  one  can  tell, 

Might  rival  the  Pink  of  Perfection  ! 

This  frock,  when  it's  made  with  most  exquisite  taste, 

And  fits  like  a  glove  on  the  shoulder  ; 
With  yoke  and  full  pleats  and  a  band  at  the  waist, 

Will  gladden  the  passing  beholder  ! 
With  lace  and  with  buttons  of  mother  o'  pearl — 

You'll  say,  on  maturest  reflection, 
The  best  of  all  garbs  for  a  pretty  young  girl 

Is  surely  the  Pink  of  Perfection  ! 


A  FAVOURITE  FROCK  75 

A  graceful  costume  I  declare  it  to  be, 

Well  worthy  a  singer's  ovation  ; 
Its  delicate  tone,  you  may  easily  see 

Will  match  a  Malmaison  carnation  ! 
You  note  such  a  frock  sitting  there  in  the  shade. 

And  find  when  you've  carefully  eyed  it, 
No  doubt  there's  a  winsome  and  merry  young  maid 

With  a  neat  little  figure  inside  it ! 
And  a  pair  of  brown  eyes,  which  flash,  I  confess, 

Amused  at  your  earnest  inspection — 
The  frock  and  its  wearer,  you'll  speedily  guess, 

Combined,  are  the  Pink  of  Perfection  ! 


76  THE  AUTUMN  FLOOD 


THE   AUTUMN    FLOOD 


In  a  big  autumn  flood  it  was  once,  so  they  say, 
That  Twickenham  Ferry  was  nigh  swept  away  ! 
A  nd  the  prospective  diner  from  Petersham  side 
Stood  aghast  as  he  gazed  on  the  swift-rolling  tide. 
Though  his  temper  was  short,  he  omitted  to  swear, 
But  his  grievance  was  voiced  to  a  popular  air  ! 


FROM  Petersham  came  I  to  Twickenham  Ferry 
(There's  plenty  of  mud,  the  stream  running  down !) 

I  see  not  a  boat,  so  I'm  not  feeling  merry — 

Though  asked  out  to  dinner  at  Twickenham  town  ; 

They  dine  at,  I'm  certain,  a  quarter  to  eight — 

I  gaze  at  the  mud-banks  bemoaning  my  fate  ; 

There  is  not  a  skiff,  or  a  punt,  or  a  wherry, 
Or  chance  of  my  dining  at  Twickenham  town ! 

But  where  may  I  ask  now  is  Twickenham  Ferry  ? 

(There's  plenty  of  mud,  the  stream  running  down  !) 
I'm  getting  an  hungered,  and  savage  feel  very — 

They're  punctual  diners  in  Twickenham  town  ! 


THE  AUTUMN  FLOOD  77 

I  cannot  get  over,  howe'er  I  may  wish  ; 

They've  finished   the  soup,  they're  beginning  the 

fish 

And  had  a  few  glasses  of  excellent  sherry — 
I  would  I  were  dining  in  Twickenham  town  ! 

Dear  me,  it  is  odd,  where  is  Twickenham  Ferry  ? 

(There's  plenty  of  mud,  the  stream  running  down  .') 
Unless  my  dress  suit  in  the  torrent  I  bury, 

I  cannot  get  over  to  Twickenham  town 
I  can't  understand  it,  but  something  is  wrong — 
Does  Twickenham  Ferry  exist  but  in  song  ? 
As  likely  am  I  to  be  dancing  in  Kerry, 

As  dining  this  evening  in  Twickenham  town  ! 


78  A    WET  SEASON 


A   WET   SEASON 


You'll  find  whene'er  folks  meet  together, 
They're  sure  to  talk  about  the  weather  ! 


JACK 

WHAT  ruined  every  summer  suit, 
And  washed  away  the  autumn  fruit  ? 
What  slacked  the  strings  of  singer's  lute  ?- 

BERYL 

The  Weather  ! 

What  interfered  with  listless  laze, 
And  winter  made  of  summer  days  ? 
What  watered  all  the  sunny  rays  ? — 

JACK 

The  weather  ! 

What  laughed  the  oarsmen  all  to  scorn, 
And  turned  on  torrents  night  and  morn  ? 
What  flattened  out  the  standing"\:orn  ? — 


A    WET  SEASON  79 

BERYL 

The  Weather  ! 

What  turned  the  picnic  into  slosh, 
And  made  us  don  the  mackintosh  ? 
The  ulster,  brolly,  and  galosh  ? — 

JACK 

The  Weather  ! 

What  caused  us  all  to  cough  and  sneeze. 
And  likewise  shiver,  shake  and  freeze, 
While  standing  'neath  the  dripping  trees  ? — 

BERYL 

The  Weather! 

What  sullied  all  the  dainty  frocks, 
And  spattered  shoes  and  frills  and  clocks  ? 
What  gave  to  hats  some  nasty  knocks  ? — 

JACK 
The  Weather  ! 

BERYL 

What  sent  the  petticoats  a-whirl, 
And  put  the  fringes  out  of  curl  ? 
What  quite  disheartened  ev'ry  girl  ? — 


So  A    WET  SEASON 

JACK 

The  Weather  ! 

What  spoilt  each  flower-show  and  fete, 
And  marred  the  lovers'  tete-d-tete, 
What  made  the  mildest  objurgate  ? — 

BERYL 
The  Weather  ! 


A   SWING-SONG  81 


A  SWING-SONG 


//  you  lie  in  a  hammock  and  steadily  swing 
'Neath  the  shade  of  the  trees  you  may  slumber  and  sing 
If  you  sleepily  sway,  all  the  afternoon  through, 

A  nd  do  naught  with  intense  assiduity  ; 
A  fresh  phase  of  content  'twill  confer  upon  you, 

Which  philosophers  call  "  Hammockuity  "  ! 


I  LOVE  to  muse,  it's  very  true, 

Beneath  the  sycamore, 
The  distant  weir  to  listen  to, 

Or  slumber  to  its  roar  ! 
'Tis  good  to  muse,  to  laugh  or  laze, 

When  talk  is  superfluity  ; 
'Tis  sweet  in  sultry  summer  days, 

To  practise  hammockuity  ! 

Forgotten  here,  I  would  forget 
The  destiny  fate  weaves, 

The  while  I  smoke  a  cigarette 
To  music  of  the  leaves  ; 

G 


82  A   SWING-SONG 

I  wish  my  present  lazy  life 

A  lengthy  continuity ; 
Away  from  trouble,  care,  and  strife, 

In  happy  hammockuity  ! 

While  others  work,  while  others  play, 

Or  love,  or  laugh,  or  weep  ; 
I  watch  the  smoke-rings  curl  away, 

And  sometimes  fall  asleep  1 
I'd  give  up  thought  of  future  fame — 

Despite  such  incongruity — 
I'd  forfeit  riches,  power,  name, 

For  blissful  hammockuity  ! 

I  hate  the  booming  busy  bee 

Who  dares  to  wake  me  up — 
I  wonder  if  it's  time  for  tea, 

Or  grateful  cyder-cup  ? 
I  would  I  could,  beneath  the  trees, 

Repose  in  perpetuity, 
And  swing,  and  sing,  and  take  mine  ease 

In  lasting  hammockuity  ! 


A    VERY  GOOD  REASON  83 


A   VERY   GOOD    REASON 

Aboard  a  skiff  beneath  the  trees,  the  Singer  was  a 
panter — 

A  nd  asked  a  Wilful  Maiden  why  she  wore  a  Tam-o'- 
shanter  ? 

She  gazed  upon  his  sunburnt  face,  half  doubting  if  he 
chaffed  her, 

Then,  noting  well  his  solemn  mien,  she  answered 
thus,  with  laughter — 

LET  others  wear,  aboard  a  boat, 

The  "  Rubens  "  hat  or  bonnet ; 
The  "  Merry  Widow  "  when  afloat 

With  ample  plumes  upon  it; 
The  "  Beefeater  "  of  quaint  design, 

The  "  Flower-pot,"  or  "  Planter  " — 
But  as  for  me,  I  more  incline 

To  wear  my  Tam-o'-shanter  ! 

Let  others  sport  the  fluffy  hat, 

The  "  Sailor  Boy,"  or  "  Granny  "  ; 

The  "  Bargee,"  or  some  other  that 
Is  anything  but  canny. 


84  A    VERY  GOOD  REASON 

If  petticoats  be  short  or  long, 

Or  fuller  be  or  scanter, 
Or  if  you  think  it  right  or  wrong — 

I'll  wear  my  Tam-o'-shanter  ! 

I'll  wear  it  if  it's  hot  or  cold, 

Let  weather  what  it  may  be  ! 
Will  this  Child  do  "  what  she  is  told  "  ? 

Or  is  she  quite  a  baby  ? 
I  do  not  care  for  my  mama, 

Or  cousin  Charlie's  banter  ; 
Despite  the  chaff  of  dear  papa, 

I'll  wear  my  Tam-o'-shanter  ! 

You  ask  me  if  I'll  tell  you  why 

I  cannot  do  without  it  ? 
Because  it  keeps  me  cool  and  dry — 

You  seem  inclined  to  doubt  it  ? 
The  reason  why  ?    There,  pray  don't  tease  ! 

I'll  tell  you  that  instanter : 
The  reason  is — Because  I  please 

To  wear  my  Tam-o'-shanter  1 


AN  IDLE  IDYL  85 


AN    IDLE    IDYL 


How  blithely  the  beauties  break  into  a  canter, 
A  nd  over  the  sward  how  their  feet  pit-a-pat  ! 

The  light-hearted  lass  in  a  white  tam-o'-shanter, 
The  merry  young  maid  in  a  sailor-boy  hat ! 


0  PANGBOURNE  is  pleasant  in  glad  summer-time, 
And  Streatley  and  Goring  are  worthy  of  rhyme  ; 
The  sunshine  is  hot  and  the  breezes  are  still, 
The  River  runs  swift  under  Basildon  Hill  ! 

To  lounge  in  a  skiff  is  delightful  to  me, 
I'm  feeling  as  lazy  as  lazy  can  be  ; 

1  don't  care  to  sail  and  I  don't  care  to  row — 
When  lucky  enough  to  be  taken  in  tow  ! 

Though  battered  am  I,  like  the  old  "  Temeraire,' 
My  tow-ers  are  young  and  my  tow-ers  are  fair ; 
The  one  is  Eleven,  the  other  Sixteen, 
The  merriest  maidens  that  ever  were  seen. 


86  AN  IDLE  IDYL 

They  pull  with  a  will  and  they  keep  the  line  tight, 
Dimpled  Dolly  in  blue  and  sweet  Hetty  in  white  ; 
And  though  you  may  think  it  is  not  comme  il  faut, 
"Tis  awfully  nice  to  be  taken  in  tow. 

I  loll  on  the  cushions,  I  smoke,  and  I  dream, 
And  list  to  the  musical  song  of  the  stream  ; 
The  boat  gurgles  on  by  the  rushes  and  weeds, 
And,  crushing  the  lilies,  scroops  over  the  reeds. 
The  sky  is  so  blue  and  the  water  so  clear, 
I'm  almost  too  idle  to  think  or  to  steer  ! 
Let  scullers  delight  in  hot  toiling,  but  O  ! — 
Let  me  have  the  chance  to  be  taken  in  tow  ! 

The  dragon-fly  flashes,  the  skiff  glides  along, 

The  leaves  whisper  low,  and  the  stream  runneth 

strong ; 

But  still  the  two  maidens  tramp  girlfully  on, 
I'll  reward  them  for  this  when  we  get  to  the  "  Swan  "; 
For  then  shall  be  rest  for  my  excellent  team, 
A  strawberry  banquet,  with  plenty  of  cream  ! — 
Believe  me,  good  people,  for  I  ought  to  know, 
'Tis  capital  fun  to  be  taken  in  tow  ! 


A   RIVER  RHAPSODY  87 


A   RIVER   RHAPSODY 


No  one  in  his  senses  will  ever  deny 
That  Henley's  delicious  in  leafy  July  ! 


O,  COME  down  to  Henley,  for  London  is  horrid ; 

There's  no  peace  or  quiet  to  sunset  from  dawn. 
The  Row  is  a  bore,  and  the  Park  is  too  torrid, 

So  come  down  and  lounge  on  the  "  Red  Lion  " 

Lawn  ! 

Then,    come  down   to   Henley,    no   time   like   the 
present, 

The  sunshine  is  bright,  the  barometer's  high — 
O,  come  down  at  once,  for  Regatta-time's  pleasant, 

Thrice  pleasant  is  Henley  in  laughing  July  ! 

Now,  gay  are  the  gardens  of  Fawley  and  Phyllis, 
The  Bolney  backwaters  are  shaded  from  heat ; 

The  rustle  of  poplars  on  Remenham  Hill  is, 
'Mid  breezes  sestival,  enchantingly  sweet ! 


88  A   RIVER  RHAPSODY 

When  hay-scented  meadows  with  oarsmen  are 
crowded — 

Whose  bright  tinted  blazers  gay  toilettes  outvie — 
When  sunshine  is  hot  and  the  sky  is  unclouded, 

O,  Henley  is  splendid  in  lovely  July  ! 

Ah  me  !  what  a  revel  of  exquisite  colours, 

What  costumes  in  pink  and  in  white  and  in  blue, 
By  smart  canoistes  and  by  pretty  girl  scullers, 

Are  sported  in  randan,  in  skiff,  in  canoe  ! 
What  sun-shaded  lasses  we  see  out  a-punting, 

What  fair  gondoltire  perchance  we  espy. 
And   house-boats   and   launches   all   blossom   and 
bunting — 

O,  Henley's  a  picture  in  merry  July  ! 

If  it  rains,  as  it  may,  in  this  climate  capricious, 

And  Beauty  is  shod  with  the  gruesome  galosh  ; 
While  each  dainty  head-dress  and  toilette  delicious 

Is  shrouded  from  view  in  the  grim  mackintosh 
We'll  flee  to  the  cheery  "  Athena  "  for  shelter — 

The  pdtS  is  perfect,  the  Giesler  is  dry — 
And   think   while   we   gaze,    undismayed,    at   the 
"  pelter," 

That  Henley  is  joyous  in  dripping  July  ! 


A   RIVER  RHAPSODY  89 

The  ancient  grey  bridge  is  delightful  to  moon  on, 

For  ne'er  such  a  spot  for  the  mooner  was  made  ; 
He'll  spend  to  advantage  a  whole  afternoon  on 

Its  footway,  and  loll  on  its  quaint  balustrade  ! 
For  this,  of  all  others,  the  best  is  of  places, 

To  watch  countless  pictures  drift  dreamily  by. 
To  witness  the  splendour,  the  shouting,  the  races, 

At  Henley  Regatta  in  charming  July  ! 

When  athletes  are  weary  and  hushed  is  the  riot, 

When  launches  have  vanished  and  house-boats 

are  gone, 
When  Henley  once  more  is  delightfully  quiet — 

'Tis  soothing  to  muse  on  the  "  Red  Lion  "  Lawn  ! 
When  the  swans  hold  their  own  and  the  sedges 
scarce  shiver, 

As  sweet  summer  breezes  most  tunefully  sigh — 
Let  us  laze  at  the  ruddy-faced  inn  by  the  River, 

For  Henley  is  restful  in  dreamy  July  I 


90  IN  THE   OLD   GARDEN 


IN    THE   OLD    GARDEN 


Where  secrets,  sometimes,  one  supposes, 
Are  softly  whispered  'mid  the  roses  ! 


HOT,  hot  glows  the  sunshine  in  laughing  July, 
Scarce  flutter  the  leaves  in  the  light  summer  sigh  : 
The  rooks  scarcely  swing  on  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
While  river-reeds  nod  to  the  lime-scented  breeze  ; 
A  rose-leaf,  a  bask  in  the  glitter  and  gleam, 
Half  sleeps  in  a  bubble  afloat  on  the  stream  ; 
The  dragon-fly  hushes  his  day-dreamy  lay, 
The  silver  trout  sulks  in  his  sedge-shaded  bay — 
While  all  Nature  seems  merged  in  mellifluous  rhyme 
As  they  lazily  loiter  in  strawberry  time  ! 

Sweet,  sweet  is  the  scent  of  the  newly  mown  hay, 
Light  borne  by  the  breeze  on  this  bright  summer 

day ; 

And  cool  is  the  sound  of  the  musical  plash, 
Of  oars  that  pass  in  the  sunshine  and  flash  ! 


IN  THE   OLD   GARDEN  gi 

'Twixt  sombre  yew  hedges  they  wander  away 
To  where  the  Old  Garden  with  roses  is  gay  : 
And  fragrant  with  scent  of  the  white  and  the  red  ; 
While  berries  loom  large  in  the  leaf-covered  bed — 
Then  the  largest,  the  ripest,  the  pick  of  the  prime, 
Do  they  gather  together,  in  strawberry  time  ! 

Light,  light  is  the  laughter  that  carelessly  rings, 

And  merry  the  carol  she  tenderly  sings  ! 

He  murmurs  a  story  we  all  of  us  know — 

The  while  dainty  dimples  come  fast  as  they  go  ! 

Her  long  lashes  shelter  those  eloquent  eyes —  _ 

Her  laughter  is  lost  in  a  tumult  of  sighs  ! 

Those  pretty,  plump  fingers,  red-stained  to  the 

tips, 
All  tremble,  while  pouting  are  rosiest  lips  ! — 

And  he  thinks  as  they  pause  'neath  the  tremulous 
lime, 

That  life  is  worth  living  in  strawberry  time  ! 


92  A    RIVER   STREET 


A   RIVER   STREET 


A  haven  of  rest — a  most  peaceful  retreat 

You'll  doubtless  attain  in  this  old-fashioned  street. 


O,  WHEN  you  can  no  longer  stand 

The  ceaseless  noise  and  hustle, 
And  busy  traffic  of  the  Strand, 

The  motor-hoot  and  bustle  ; 
I  pray  you  wander  down  with  me 

A  street  both  steep  and  straight, 
Down  riverwards — where  you  may  see 

The  fine  old  Water  Gate  ! 

Though  scarce  two  minutes  from  the  Strand 

Or  the  South  Eastern  Station, 
This  is  the  spot  for  quiet  and 

Most  peaceful  meditation : 
Where  pigeons  in  the  roadway  stride 

And  peck  and  preen  as  well, 
While  oft  is  heard  at  eventide 

The  tinkling  muffin  bell  ! 


A   RIVER    STREET  93 

The  local  atmosphere  one  thinks 

Is  wondrously  composing, 
For  cats  are  taking  forty  winks, 

With  half  the  street  half  dozing  : 
On  tip-toe  you  feel  bound  to  walk 

And  softly  tread.     It  seems 
That  if  you  don't  in  whispers  talk, 

You'll  wake  them  from  their  dreams  ! 

This  old-world  lane,  you'll  find  indeed, 

Great  interest  soon  arouses — 
Its  ornate  doorways,  canopied, 

And  time-toned  Stuart  houses  : 
With  narrow  windows,  panelled  walls — 

Not  overdone  with  light — 
Quaint  stairways,  too,  and  sombre  halls, 

Well  paved  in  black  and  white. 

This  thoroughfare  of  olden  time, 

You'll  be  the  first  to  own  is 
A  fitting  subject  for  a  rhyme, 

With  all  its  quaint  balconies  ; 
With  all  its  varied  bows  and  bays 

And  hammered  curves  that  show 
The  ironwork  of  former  days, 

The  craft  of  long  ago. 


94  A    RIVER   STREET 

Now  as  towards  the  Thames  we  gaze 

While  leaning  on  the  railing, 
The  calm  repose  of  good  old  days 

We  cannot  help  bewailing  ! 
When  by  those  crumbling  time-worn  stairs 

The  stream  flowed  close  at  hand  ; 
And  watermen  brought  many  fares 

At  this  old  Gate  to  land. 

Quite  in  the  distance  you  may  see 

The  Shot  Tower  plainly  showing  ; 
A  silver  gleam  you'll  find  to  be 

The  River  seaward  flowing ! 
Gay  flower-beds,  lawns  fresh  and  green, 

All  modern,  as  you  know, 
While  towering  in  front  is  seen 

The  work  of  Inigo  ! 

This  archway — note  each  side  arcade 

With  lions  elevated — 
Escallops  thereupon  displayed 

And  columns  rusticated  ; 
The  structure,  now  a  silver  grey, 

The  Villiers  motto  wears — 
Fidei  Crux  coticula — 

And  Villiers  arms  still  bears  ! 


A    RIVER  STREET  95 

As  on  the  lilac-shaded  shore 

We  quietly  are  gazing, 
The  Stuart  times  return  once  more 

Quite  vividly  amazing  ! 
Once  more  the  gilded  barges  glide, 

Likewise  the  bannered  boat ; 
Again  the  stairs  seem  washed  by  tide 

And  Fashion  is  afloat  1 

A  York  House  fete  ?    Ah  !   now  we  see 

Bright  Nelly  landing  straightway  ; 
While  Frances  Stewart,  full  of  glee, 

Comes  tripping  through  the  Gateway  ! 
Then  up  the  steps  come  gallants  gay, 

Come  soldiers,  courtiers,  peers, 
In  periwigs  and  brave  array, 

Come  dashing  Cavaliers  ! 
Come  beauties  with  their  crinkled  locks, 

Bedecked  with  jewels  quaint, 
In  picturesque,  low-bosomed  frocks, 

That  Lely  loved  to  paint ! 

'Twas  at  the  corner — long  ago, 

That  dear  old  Pepys  resided  ; 
And  watched  the  River  ebb  and  flow, 

With  craft  that  on  it  glided. 


96  A   RIVER    STREET 

And  "  Lord  !  "  how  often  he'd  espy — 
"  With  very  great  content  " — 

The  laughing  lasses  passing  by, 
As  on  the  sill  he  leant. 

Here  Etty  colour  schemes  pursued, 

Venetian  in  their  arture, 
And  in  his  studies  from  the  nude 

Made  quite  a  new  departure. 
Below  him  Stanfield  lived,  and  there 

Sea  stories  he'd  narrate 
In  paint,  while  wave,  light,  cloud  and  air 

He'd  lovingly  translate. 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  as  records  state, 

Once  sojourned  in  this  quarter  ; 
And  Russian  Peter,  called  the  Great, 

A  home  had  by  the  water. 
Here  Dutton  Cook  plied  pen  refined, 

And  Far j  eon  novels  wrote  ; 
While  William  Burges  here  designed 

His  Gothic  fanes  of  note  ! 

And  Copperfield,  up  front  two  pair, 
Found  lodgings  snug  and  handy  ; 

Where  Mrs.  Crupp  of  him  took  care 
And  likewise  took  his  brandy  ! 


A   RIVER    STREET  97 

At  Steer forth's  banquet,  it  was  then 

They  all  were  worse  for  wine ; 
But  punch  made  folks  all  jolly  when 

Micawber  came  to  dine  ! 
'Twas  in  this  house,  with  ceilings  rare, 

Abutting  on  the  shore, 
That  William  Black  had  chambers  there 

In  good  old  days  of  yore  ! 

Those  pleasant  rooms  are  haunted  by 

The  brightest  recollections : 
Of  River  views,  of  starlit  sky, 

Of  lights  and  weird  reflections  : 
The  genial  host,  the  quip  and  joke, 

With  merry  song,  no  lack — 
Half  veiled  in  curling  azure  smoke — 

How  clearly  they  come  back  ! 
How  fleetly  then  time  fled  away, 

Though  warnings  now  and  then, 
That  night  was  merging  into  day — 

Were  sounded  by  Big  Ben  ! 


SWINDLE'S  IN  OCTOBER 


SKINDLE'S    IN    OCTOBER 


Golden,  tawny,  crimson,  brown, 
Fast  the  autumn  leaves  fall  down  ! 


OCTOBER  is  the  time  of  year ; 
For  no  regattas  interfere, 
The  River  then  is  fairly  clear 

Of  steaming  "  spindles," 
You  then  have  space  to  moor  your  punt, 
You  then  can  get  a  room  in  front 

Of  Skindle's. 

When  Taplow  Woods  are  russet  red, 
When  half  the  poplar  leaves  are  shed, 
When  silence  reigns  at  Maidenhead, 

And  autumn  dwindles, 
"Tis  good  to  lounge  upon  that  lawn, 
Though  beauties  of  last  June  are  gone 

From  Skindle's. 


SKINDLE'S  IN  OCTOBER  99 

We  toiled  in  June  all  down  to  Bray, 
And  yarns  we  spun  for  Mab  and  May  ; 
O,  who  would  think  such  girls  as  they 

Would  turn  out  swindles  ? 
But  now  we  toil  and  spin  for  jack, 
And  in  the  evening  we  get  back 

To  Skindle's. 

And  after  dinner — passing  praise — 
'Tis  sweet  to  meditate  and  laze, 
To  watch  the  ruddy  logs  ablaze  ; 

And  as  one  kindles 
The  big  post-prandial  cigar, 
My  friend,  be  thankful  that  we  are 

At  Skindle's  ! 


ioo  BLANKTON  WEIR 


BLANKTON    WEIR 

Voices  from  afar  and  near, 
Haunt  the  music  of  this  weir  ! 

'Tis  a  queer  old  pile  of  timbers,  all  gnarled  and 
rough  and  green, 

Both  moss-o'ergrown  and  weed-covered,  and  jagged 
too,  I  ween  ! 

'Tis  battered  and  'tis  spattered,  all  worn  and 
knocked  about, 

Beclamped  with  rusty  rivets,  and  bepatched  with 
timbers  stout ; 

A  tottering,  trembling  structure — its  aspect  we 
revere — 

This  weather-beaten  barrier,  this  quaint  old  Blank- 
ton  Weir. 

While  leaning  on  those  withered  rails,  what  feelings 

oft  come  back 
As  I  watch  the  white  foam  sparkling  and  note  the 

current's  track ; 


BLANKTON   WEIR 


Ah  !    what  crowds  of  fleeting  fancies  come  dancing 

through  my  brain  ! 
And  the  good  old  days  of  Blankton,  I  live  them  o'er 

again  ; 
What  hopes  and  fears,  gay  smiles,  sad  tears,  seem 

mirrored  in  the  mere, 
While    gazing    on    its    troubled    face    by    tell-tale 

Blankton  Weir  ! 

I've  seen  it  basking  'neath  the  rays  of  summer's 
golden  glow, 

When  hallowed  by  the  moonlight,  gleaming  ripples 
come  and  go ; 

When  Nature  starts  in  spring  time,  awakening  into 
life; 

When  autumn  leaves  are  falling,  and  the  yellow 
corn  is  rife ; 

'Mid  the  rime  and  sleet  of  winter,  when  all  is  dull 
and  drear, 

I've  watched  the  water  rushing  through  this  tide- 
worn  Blankton  Weir. 

And  I  mind  me  of  one  even  so  calm  and  clear  and 

bright — 
What  songs  we  sang,  whose  voices  rang,  that  lovely 

summer  night. 


BLANKTON   WEIR 


Where  are  the  hearty  voices  now  who  trolled  the 

good  old  lays  ? 
And  where  the  silvery  laughter  that  rang  in  bygone 

days  ? 
Come  back,  that  night  of  long  ago  ! — Ah  !   how  the 

past  seems  near  ! — 
When  hearts  beat  light,  and  eyes  were  bright,  about 

old  Blankton  Weir. 

Was  ever  indolence  so  sweet,  were  ever  days  so 

fine, 
As  when  we  lounged  in  that  old  punt  and  played 

with  rod  and  line  ? 
"Tis  true  few  fish  we  caught  there,  but  the  good  old 

ale  we  quaffed, 
As  we  chatted,  too,  and  lunched  there,  and  idled, 

dreamed,  and  laughed ; 
Then  thought  we  only  of  to-day,  of  morrow  had  no 

fear, 
For  sorrow   scarce    had    tinged   the  stream   that 

flowed  through  Blankton  Weir. 

Those    dreamy    August   afternoons,    when   in   our 

skiff  we  lay, 
To  hear  the  current  murmuring  as  slow  it  swirled 

away ; 


BLANKTON   WEIR  103 

The  half-hushed  caw  of  distant  rook,  the  old  weir's 

plash  and  roar, 
While  Someone's  gentle  voice,  too,  seems  whispering 

there  once  more  ; 
Ah  !    those  were  days  of  love  and  trust — though 

cynics  carp  and  sneer — 
When  girls  were  girls,  and  hearts  were  hearts,  about 

old  Blankton  Weir. 

Those  brilliant  sunny  mornings  when  we  tumbled 

out  of  bed, 
And  hurried  on  a  few  rough  clothes,  and  to  the 

River  sped  ! 
What  laughing  joyaunce  glorified  those  merry  days 

agone, 
We  clove  the  rushing  current  at  the  early  flush  of 

dawn  1 
Tremendous  headers  took  we  in  the  waters  bright 

and  clear, 
And  splashed  and  dashed  and  dived  and  swam, 

close  by  old  Blankton  Weir  1 

Then  that  pleasant  water-picnic,  when  all  the  girls 

were  there. 
In  pretty  morning  dresses  and  with  freshly  braided 

hair  ; 


104  BLANK  TON   WEIR 

Fair  Annie,  with  the  deep  blue  eyes,  and  rosy, 
laughing  Nell, 

Dark  Helen,  sunny  Amy,  and  the  stately  Isobel ; 

Ah,  Lizzie,  'twas  but  yesterday — at  least  'twould 
so  appear — 

We  plighted  vows  of  constancy,  not  far  from  Blank- 
ton  Weir. 

Those  flashing  eyes,  those  true  brave  hearts,  are 

gone  and  few  remain 
To  mourn  the  loss  of  sunny  hours  that  ne'er  come 

back  again  ; 
Some  married  are — ah  !  me,  how  changed — for  they 

will  think  no  more 
Of  how  they  joined  our  chorus  there,  or  helped  to 

pull  the  oar ; 
<jne  gentle  voice  is  hushed  for  aye — we  miss  a  voice 

so  dear 
That  cheered  along  with  evensong  our  path  by 

Blankton  Weir. 

Amid  the  whirl  of  weary  life — I  hear  it  o'er  and 

o'er, 
That  plaintive  well-loved  lullaby — the  old  weir's 

distant  roar ; 


BLANKTON  WEIR  105 

It  gilds  the  cloud  of  daily  toil  with  sunshine's  fitful 

gleams, 
It  breaks  upon  my  slumber,  and  I  hear  it  in  my 

dreams  ; 
Like  music  of  the  good  old  times,  it  strikes  upon 

mine  ear — 
If  there's  an  air  can  banish  care  'tis  that  of  Blankton 

Weir! 

I  know  the  River's  rushing,  but  it  rushes  not  for  me, 
I  feel  the  morning  blushing,  though  I  am  not  there 

to  see  ; 
For  younger  hearts  now  live  and  love  where  once 

we  used  to  dwell, 
And  others  laugh,  and  dream,  and  sing,  in  spots  we 

loved  so  well ; 
Their  motto  "  Carpe  diem  " — 'twas  ours  for  many 

a  year — 
As  show  these  rhymes  of  sunny  times  about  old 

Blankton  Weir  ! 


io6  A   LUCID  INTERVAL 


A   LUCID    INTERVAL 

'Tis  good  to  hear  the  Skipper  bawl, 
With  hearty  voice,  now,  "Easy  all!" 

OUR  Crew  it  is  stalwart,  our  Crew  it  is  smart, 

But  needeth  refreshment  at  noon  ; 
Let's  land  at  the  lawn  of  the  cheery  "  White  Hart, 

Now  gay  with  the  glamour  of  June  ! 
For  here  can  we  lunch  to  the  music  of  trees — 

In  sight  of  the  swift  river  running — 
Off  cuts  of  cold  beef  and  a  prime  Cheddar  cheese, 

And  a  tankard  of  bitter  at  Sonning  ! 

The  garden  is  lovely,  the  host  is  polite, 

His  rose-trees  are  ruddy  with  bloom, 
The  snowy-clad  table  with  silver  gleams  bright, 

And  pleasant  the  flower- dight  room  : 
So  sit  down  at  once,  at  your  inn  take  your  ease — 

No  man  of  our  Crew  will  be  shunning — 
A  cut  of  cold  beef  and  a  prime  Cheddar  cheese, 

And  a  tankard  of  bitter  at  Sonning  ! 


A   LUCID  INTERVAL  107 

We've  had  a  long  pull,  and  are  glad  of  a  rest, 

We've  all  a  superb  appetite  ! 
The  noble  sirloin  it  is  all  of  the  best 

The  ale  it  is  beady  and  bright ; 
New  potatoes  galore,  and  delicious  green  peas — 

The  Skipper  avers  they  are  "  stunning  " — 
With  cuts  of  cold  beef  and  a  prime  Cheddar  cheese, 

And  a  tankard  of  bitter  at  Sonning  ! 

The  windows  are  open,  the  lime-scented  breeze 

Comes  mixed  with  the  perfume  of  hay ; 
We  list  to  the  weir  and  the  humming  of  bees 

As  we  sit  and  we  smoke  in  the  bay  ! 
Then  here's  to  our  host,  ever  anxious  to  please, 

And  here's  to  his  brewers  so  cunning  ! 
His  cuts  of  cold  beef  and  his  prime  Cheddar  cheese, 

And  his  tankards  of  bitter  at  Sonning  ! 


io8  THE  JARGLE 


THE   JARGLE 


However  unlikely,  the  charm  never  fails 
Of  Fishermen's  Stories  or  Travellers'  Tales. 


A  GOOD  old  inn,  down  by  the  riverside, 
A  cosy  room  within  its  ancient  walls  ; 
A  sombre  chamber,  by  tall  candles  lit, 
Whose  brazen  sconces  mocked  the  yellow  flames. 
Which  flickered  in  the  polished  case  of  clock 
And  echo  found  in  brass  tobacco  box. 
On  countless  glasses  did  they  glow  and  glint, 
In  depths  of  dark  mahogany  they  lurked  ; 
On  wheel-barometer  they  flashed  to  show 
Its  purple  pointer  pointing  to  "  Set  Fair." 
And  blazed  in  cases,  which  adorned  the  walls, 
Replete  with  victims  of  the  angler's  skill  ! 
Here  might  be  found  the  trout  of  unknown  weight, 
The  savage  pike  which  took  so  long  to  land  ! 
A-gleam  with  varnish,  and  discreetly  stuffed, 
They  glared  at  guests  with  gruesome  glassy  eyes  ! 


THE  JARGLE  109 

'Twas  here  the  Anglers,  having  wisely  dined, 
Sat  down  to  talk  and  smoke  at  eventide  ; 
Through  windows  opened  wide  they  gazed  upon 
The  fragrant  sweetness  of  still  summer  night  ! 
And  watched  the  bending  poplars  slowly  sway 
Before  the  glowing  gleam  of  mellow  moon. 
Then,  as  the  azure  vapours  twirled  and  curled, 
Upon  the  sighing  hay-charged  breeze  was  borne 
The  far-off  bark  of  dog  or  tramp  of  horse, 
The  half-hushed  harmony  from  distant  boat ; 
While  echo  of  the  voice  was  heard  of  some 
Belated  oarsman  shouting  at  the  lock. 
Meanwhile,  to  chorus  of  the  sounding  weir, 
The  doughty  Anglers  smoked  and  babbled  on  ! 

Ah  !    how  they  puffed  their  long  churchwarden 

pipes 

And  took  their  fly-books  out,  comparing  notes  ; 
They  spoke  of  former  conquests  with  the  rod, 
And  fought  their  finny  combats  o'er  again  ! 
What  tales  were  told  of  salmon  in  the  Erne, 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  trout  upon  the  Colne  ; 
Of  wondrous  takes  of  gudgeon  in  the  Thames, 
Of  bouts  with  barbel  and  of  turns  with  tench  ; 
Of  playing  monster  pike  in  Constance  Lake, 
And  gleaming  grayling  in  the  Wutach  caught  ! 


no  THE  JARGLE 

'Twas  thus  they  boasted  of  their  valiant  deeds 
And  chattered  learnedly  of  hooks  and  flies. 
As  each  one  told  his  tale  it  seemed  to  be 
E'en  still  more  wondrous  than  the  tale  just  told  ! 

But  yet  there  was  one  tall  and  stalwart  man 
Who  in  the  corner  smoked  and  said  no  word  ; 
He  puffed,  while  azure  vapour  round  him  hung, 
Like  summer  clouds  upon  the  mountain  side  ! 
Then  someone  turning  to  him  said,  "  No  doubt 
That  all  this  fishing  talk  must  be  a  bore 
To  one  who  ne'er  pursued  the  timid  trout, 
Who  ne'er  a  salmon  gaffed  nor  tied  a  fly  ?  " — 
The  big  man  smiled  and,  putting  down  his  pipe, 
In  rich  sonorous  tones  'twas  thus  he  spake : 

"Well !   Fishing  I  think  I  know  something  about — 
Not  snaring  of  salmon  nor  fooling  of  trout, 
Nor  pulling  out  gudgeon,  when  weather  is  fine, 
Nor  spinning  for  pike  with  a  rod  and  a  line  : 
E'en   fishing  for    cod,   when    the    day's    rather 

rough, 

I  candidly  own,  it  is  not  good  enough — 
But  fishing  that's  sport  is  delightful  to  me, 
When  Jargle-fish  flash  in  the  Glamorous  Sea  ! 


THE  JARGLE  in 

Away  in  the  North — no,  I  won't  tell  you  where — 
Is  the  sea  I  have  named,  with  its  keen  biting 

air ; 

Where  Jargle-fish  love  to  meander  and  play, 
And  leap,  dash,  and  flounder  in  search  of  their 

prey. 

A  rod  like  a  derrick,  a  winch  like  a  crane, 
You're  forced  to  adopt,  or  you'll  angle  in  vain  ! 
A  hook  like  a  butcher's,  a  float  like  a  buoy, 
And  wire-rope  tackle  you're  bound  to  employ. 
If  armed  to  the  teeth  it  is  possible  we 
May  catch  a  stray  Jargle  in  Glamorous  Sea  ! 

"  He's  covered  with  bristles  as  thick  as  a  hog ; 
He  blows  like  a  grampus  and  barks  like  a  dog  : 
With  fin  like  a  foresail  and  teeth  like  a  shark. 
With  eyes  like  port-lanterns  that  gleam  in  the 

dark! 

He's  crafty  and  cunning,  there  can't  be  a  doubt — 
An  impudent  fish  with  an  impudent  snout  ! 
With  tusks  like  a  walrus  and  jaws  underhung, 
With  pendulous  lips  and  a  poisonous  tongue  ! 
The  fiercest  of  fishes  that  e'er  was  afloat, 
He'll  bite  off  your  arm  or  will  eat  up  your  boat. 
Your  lot  will  be  sad,  if  you  happen  to  be, 
Alone  with  the  Jargle  on  Glamorous  Sea  ! 


112  THE  JARGLE 

The  last  one  I  caught,  it  was  glorious  fun, 
Three  miles  of  the  line  he  took  out  at  a  run, 
Then  quickly  returning  and  howling  with  pain, 
He  rushed  at  the  boatman  again  and  again  ! 
He  bit  him,  he  tore  him,  he  beat  him  to  pulp, 
Then  fiercely  he  swallowed  him  up  at  a  gulp  ! 
He  yelled  and  he  bellowed  and  turned  the  boat  o'er, 
The  billows  around  us  were  ruddy  with  gore  ; 
He  crunched  up  the  craft  with  great  relish  and 

glee- 
Then  snorted  and  turned  his  attention  to  me  ! 
He  opened  his  jaws  and  I  saw  in  his  throat 
The  splintered  remains  of  my  poor  little  boat. 
Then  on  he  came,  on,  with  a  rush  and  a  bound. 
Not  thinking,  for  once,  that  his  master  he'd  found ; 
For  diving  beneath  him,  revolver  in  hand, 
I  fired  from  the  depths !    The  result  it  was  grand  ! 
He  leapt  from  the  waters. — Ere  you  could  count 

three 
The  Jargle  lay  dead  in  the  Glamorous  Sea  ! " 

His  story  told,  our  friend  resumed  his  pipe 
And  sent  the  smoke-wreaths  curling  through  the 

room: 

He  smiled — the  Anglers  said  "  Good  Night !"  and  felt 
The  latest  word  on  fishing  had  been  said ! 


A   FAIR  PUN  TRESS  113 


A   FAIR   PUNTRESS 


While  Phyllis  punts  I  feebly  try 
To  paint  her  portrait  on  the  sly  ! 


'Tis  pleasant  on  the  Thames  to  laze 
On  sweet  unclouded  summer  days, 
When  punt  propelled,  on  water-ways, 

By  subtle  skill  is  : 

Thrice  pleasant  when  we're  sped  along 
In  cushioned  ease — with  merry  song — 

By  Phyllis  ! 

Her  hands  are  shapely,  dimpled,  tanned ; 
Her  smart  straw  hat  you'll  notice  and 
Half-hidden  in  its  snowy  band 

A  white  swan-quill  is  : 
Her  sleeves  are  furled,  her  frock  is  pink. 
No  puntress  looks  so  nice,  I  think, 

As  Phyllis  1 

i 


114  A   FAIR  PUNTRESS 

Despite  a  dignity  of  mien, 

A  russet  shoe  may  oft  be  seen, 

And  peeping  'neath  her  frock,  I  ween, 

A  snowy  frill  is  : 
But,  O,  the  undulating  grace  ! 
The  charm  of  figure  and  of  face 

Of  Phyllis  ! 

Behold  the  maiden  standing  there, 
Who  grasps  her  pole  with  skilful  care, 
And  shows  us  what — with  queenly  air — 

Her  strength  of  will  is  : 

Though  breezes  blow,  though  stream  runs  strong, 
There's  none  can  send  this  craft  along 

Like  Phyllis  ! 

But  yet  come  moments  still  more  blest  ; 
The  pole  is  shipped,  in  cushioned  nest, 
The  damsel  takes  a  well-earned  rest — 

The  air  so  still  is  : 

Delightful  then  to  muse  and  dream, 
And  thus  go  drifting  down  the  stream 

With  Phyllis  ! 


THE  EARLY  PLUNGE  115 


THE   EARLY   PLUNGE 


For  taking  headers  in  the  stream 
The  summer  is  the  best  of  seasons  ; 

And  divers  plunge,  then,  it  would  seem, 
For  divers  reasons  ! 


A  CLOCK  has  chimed  !    You  rub  your  eyes, 
Then  waking  up  from  pleasant  dreams, 
Observe  the  sunshine's  early  gleams, 

.\nd  fancy  it  is  time  to  rise. 

The  sashes  cast,  you  soon  will  find — 
As  gentle  breezes  blithely  blow 
And  curtains  nutter  to  and  fro — 

Blue  shadows  on  the  orange  blind. 

You,  through  the  open  window,  hear 
The  clank  of  chain  and  also  note 
The  plash  of  bailing  out  a  boat 

And  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  weir  ! 


ii6  THE  EARLY  PLUNGE 

You  soon  are  drest — then  down  below 
You  find  a  man,  with  punt  quite  near — 
Who  promptly  takes  you  'neath  the  weir, 

Where  seething  waters  fiercely  flow. 

With  eyes  just  level  with  the  stream 

You  view  the  bridge,  the  boats,  the  town — 
The  tossing  torrent  pouring  down — 

All  foam  and  eddy,  glance  and  gleam. 

And  then,  you  on  the  apron  stand 

While,  as  the  swirling  flood  comes  on — 
Bright  silver,  striped  with  celadon — 

You  grasp  a  rymer  in  each  hand. 

You  feel  you  must  be  swept  away, 
And  find  it  difficult  to  fight 
The  douches  falling  left  and  right, 

As  stinging  streamlets  o'er  you  play  ! 

All  glowing,  tingling,  laughing  then, 
Again  upon  the  punt  you  bend 
Your  steps  unto  the  other  end — 

And  plunging  quick  are  lost  to  ken  ! 


THE  EARLY  PLUNGE  117 

You  swift  a  downward  course  pursue, 
'Neath  waters  clear  you  boldly  dash  ! 
Away  the  silver  fishes  flash — 

A  "  Triton  of  the  minnows  "  you  ! 

Down,  deeper  down,  to  darker  green, 

To  depths  of  deep,  the  pace  grows  slow — 
Then,  tired  of  being  down  below, 

You  raise  your  hands  and  turn,  I  ween. 

As  upward  then  you  calmly  rise 

The  deep  dark  green  soon  turns  to  light, 
The  bubbled  surface  comes  in  sight — 

And  then  the  sunshine  greets  your  eyes  ! 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  morn  is  hot, 

Swift  flows  the  River  cool  and  clear  ; 
The  leaves  make  music  with  the  weir, 

And  life's  worth  living — is  it  not  ? 


Ii8  THE  SUNBURNT  DUCHESS 


THE   SUNBURNT   DUCHESS 


Though  to  the  Peerage  not  at  all  allied, 
She's  called,  by  friends,  down  by  the  Riverside, 
"  The  Sunburnt  Duchess."    Lily  is  her  name — 
And  here  you'll  find  a  portrait  of  the  same  ! 


THE  stream  is  flowing  clear  and  bright, 
While  turquoise  glints  and  malachite 

Gyrate  and  glimmer : 
Reflected  from  the  leaves  and  sky, 
As  summer  breezes  softly  sigh 

And  ripples  shimmer ; 
A  maiden  'neath  the  trees  is  there, 
With  sweet  grey  eyes  and  sunny  hair ; 

You'll  find  that  such  is 
The  laughing  lass  so  full  of  glee, 
Whom  all  her  friends  declare  to  be 

The  Sunburnt  Duchess  ! 


THE  SUNBURNT  DUCHESS  119 

She  loves  upon  the  lawn  to  laze, 
And  ever  faultless  taste  displays 

In  morning  dresses  : 

Pray  note  the  fresh  white  cambric  gown, 
The  sailor-hat,  half-tilted  down 

O'er  rippled  tresses. 
The  dainty  blouse,  the  snowy  band, 
The  silver  chain,  the  roses  and 

The  subtle  touches 
Of  fluttered  frill  and  broderie — 
Proclaiming,  you  may  clearly  see, 

The  Sunburnt  Duchess  ! 


Close  to  the  lawn  may  be  espied 
Canoes  and  skiffs  that  fret  the  tide, 

In  solemn  measure  : 
A  tawny  punt  awaiting  too — 
With  cushions  soft,  of  Navy  blue — 

Her  Grace's  pleasure  ! 
Then  quick  aboard  this  craft  she  stands 
And,  taking  in  her  sun-kist  hands, 

She  firmly  clutches 

Her  pole,  and,  with  a  swish  and  gleam, 
Goes  gaily  punting  up  the  stream — 

The  Sunburnt  Duchess  ! 


THE  SUNBURNT  DUCHESS 


Anon  she'll  rest  in  snug  retreat. 
Leaf-shaded  from  the  noontide  heat, 

So  cool  and  stilly  : 
And  then  I  hope  she'll  kindly  deign 
To  think  my  effort  not  in  vain — 

"  To  paint  the  Lily  "  ! 
I  trust  Her  Grace  will  not  refuse 
To  read  my  rhymes,  although  my  Muse 

Oft  goes  on  crutches  ; 
And  hopeless  my  attempt  may  be 
To  sketch,  with  all  humility, 

The  Sunburnt  Duchess  ! 


THE  LOG   OF  THE    "SALLY  ANN"     121 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  "SALLY  ANN" 

When  the  wind  blows,  then  the  Barge  goes — 
Our  hearts  are  all  light  and  merry  ! 

When  the  wind  drops,  then  the  Barge  stops — 
We  lunch  and  feel  joyous  very  ! 

THE  "  Sally  Ann  "  is  spick  and  span — 

She's  one  amid  a  billion — 
It  may  be  seen  she's  painted  green 

And  picked  out  with  vermilion. 
The  Skipper  he,  'tis  plain  to  see, 

Is  brisk  and  brown  and  brawny ; 
As  for  the  Mate,  he  is  first-rate, 

The  sails  are  trim  and  tawny. 
The  terrier  "  Grawl  "  commands  us  all, 

One  cannot  help  remarking, 
He,  fore  and  aft,  pervades  the  craft — 

While  barking,  barking,  barking  ! 

One  summer  day  we  sailed  away 

From  Tilbury,  quite  early  ; 
The  morn  was  bright,  the  breeze  was  light, 

The  ripples  crisp  and  curly. 


122      THE  LOG   OF  THE  "SALLY 


As,  on  our  port,  we  leave  the  Fort  — 

Our  course  is  unrestricted  — 
We  seem  to  play  the  part,  to-day, 

That  Stanfield  once  depicted  ! 
For  now,  you  see,  we're  going  free  — 

A  gentle  breeze  prevailing  — 
And  find  full  scope  down  Lower  Hope  — 

For  sailing,  sailing,  sailing  !    . 

Our  Passenger,  take  heed  of  her, 

She's  merry,  young  and  sprightly  ; 
Just  see  her  trip  about  the  ship, 

So  gracefully  and  lightly  ! 
You'll  note,  mayhap,  her  scarlet  cap, 

Her  blue  eyes  gladly  gleaming, 
Her  cheek  so  fair,  her  sunny  hair, 

That  in  the  breeze  is  streaming  ! 
You'll  find  that  she  is  full  of  glee  — 

When  our  good  barge  is  veering  — 
Her  joy's  intense,  to  make  pretence 

Of  steering,  steering,  steering  ! 

There  standing  high  Cliffe  church  we  spy, 
Now  Cooling  Marshes  we  reach  : 

Off  Canvey  Isle  we  pause  awhile 
And  then  drift  down  the  Sea  Reach. 


THE  LOG   OF  THE   "SALLY  ANN"      123 

We  note  the  gleam  upon  the  stream — 

The  River  somewhat  crowded — 
The  ripples  glint,  the  changing  tint, 

The  sky  superbly  clouded  ! 
While  sparkles  bright  of  golden  light, 

'Mid  shadows  ever  shifting. 
With  grey  and  green  light  up  the  scene — 

While  drifting,  drifting,  drifting  ! 

The  wind  half  drops,  the  mainsail  flops, 

So  now  we  have  some  leisure  : 
And  luncheon  we  in  cabin  see, 

(Miss  Redcap  is  a  treasure  !) 
The  cloth  is  white  and  well  bedight — 

With  subtle  skill  surprising — 
The  simple  fare  arranged  with  care 

Is  wondrous  appetising  ! 
That  beefsteak  pie  she  makes  us  try, 

As  she  jam  puffs  is  munching: 
And  then  our  cup  with  Bass  fills  up — 

While  lunching,  lunching,  lunching  ! 

Now  breezes  blow  as  on  we  go 

And  waves  obscure  the  freeboard  ; 

While  as  they  thump  and  dash  and  slump. 
They  spirtle  o'er  the  lee-board  ! 


124      THE  LOG  OF  THE   " SALLY  ANN" 

But  unappalled  we  sail  close-hauled — 

The  briny  waters  cleaving — 
Southend  we  find  soon  left  behind, 

The  Isle  of  Grain  we're  leaving  ! 
And  then  we  see,  upon  our  lee — 

As  Thames-mouth  we  are  crossing — 
The  Lightship  Nore,  three  miles  from  shore, 

There  tossing,  tossing,  tossing  ! 

The  breeze  we  flout  and  go  about, 

And  soon  are  making  headway  : 
Sheerness  is  past,  and  then,  at  last. 

We're  sailing  up  the  Medway  ! 
Then  as  we  glide  up  with  the  tide — 

Which  now  is  swiftly  rushing — 
The  sun  sinks  low,  a  golden  glow 

O'er  Minster  Marsh  is  blushing  : 
We  make  the  Swale  and  furl  our  sail — 

At  anchor  soon  we're  riding — 
We  take  a  boat  and  quickly  float, 

O'er  gleaming  waters  gliding. 
The  cruise  is  o'er,  we  reach  the  shore — 

By  Mate  and  Skipper  tended — 
Our  trip,  you  know,  at  Queenborough — 

Is  ended,  ended,  ended  ! 


PART    III 


A   LOCK  LYRIC  127 


A    LOCK   LYRIC 


Although  not  bankrupt,  you'll  be  bound 
To  here  pay  threepence  in  the  pound  ! 


SEE  the  gates  are  opened  wide, 
Ship  your  sculls  and  in  we  glide  ! 
Quickly  then  it  will  be  found 
We're  within  the  dismal  pound. 
Fa,  la,  la  ! 

Now  the  gates  close  with  a  bang,   - 
Sluices  falling  with  a  clang  ; 
Now  we're  held  in  durance  dank, 
Clinging  close  to  dripping  bank  : 
Muddy  posts  the  currents  lave 
In  this  open  wat'ry  grave. 
Upper  sluices  up  are  wound, 
Rushing  ripples  leap  and  bound  ! 
Keep  your  craft  all  trim  and  straight, 
While  the  waters  undulate  ! 
Fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la  ! 


128  A   LOCK  LYRIC 

See  our  skiff  now  lightly  ride 
On  the  boiling,  flowing  tide  ; 
As  the  foam  in  circles  flies, 
Inch  by  inch  we  slowly  rise  : 
Soon  we  quit  the  depths  of  gloom 
In  the  madid,  muddy  tomb  ; 
Soon  we  note  the  sunlight  gleam 
On  the  dimpled  whirling  stream  ! 
Presently  we  find  is  seen 
Pleasant  banks  of  vivid  green  ; 
Next  the  lock-house  comes  in  view, 
With  its  elms  and  garden  too. 
Now  we  find  the  turmoil  cease, 
Full  the  lock  is  and  at  peace  ! 
Upper  gates  now  creak,  and  they 
Open  wide.    We  must  away  ! 
Fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la  ! 


A   BAROMETRICAL  BALLAD  129 


A   BAROMETRICAL   BALLAD 

/  hear  it  has  somewhere  been  said  by  a  Sage, 
All  students  of  weather  attain  a  great  age  : 
So  well,  on  the  Thames,  is  it  studied,  I'm  told. 
That  all  River-folk  have  a  chance  to  grow  old  ! 

IF   you'd   be  a   Methuselah   or   reach  Old  Parr's 

longevity, 
Allow  me  to  prescribe  for  you  with  briefness  and 

sincerity  ! 
Pray  never  take  exertion  great,  which  anyone  who's 

fat  must  fear, 
But  unto  forecasts  give  your  mind  and  criticise  the 

atmosphere : 
Don't  waste  your  time  on  foolish  fads,  on  books  or 

archaeology, 
But  if  you'd  reach  a  good  old  age — just  study 

meteorology  ! 

You   never  must  be   led  away  or   vanquished   by 

philology, 
And,  understand,  you  must  avoid  temptation  to 

zoology  ; 
K 


130          A   BAROMETRICAL   BALLAD 

You  must  repulse  with  firm  resolve  the  charm  of 

aristology, 
You  never  must  be  led  away  by  leanings  towards 

astrology ; 
And,  though  you're  on  the  River,  don't  dream  of 

potamology, 
But  let  your  brain — your  boundless   brain — just 

master  meteorology  ! 

The  wily  student's  weather-eye,  though  under  sun 
or  under  storm, 

Will  find  in  "  great  depression  "  joy,  and  comfort 
in  a  thunderstorm : 

The  rain-gage  is  the  pledge  of  youth,  there's  health 
in  the  hygrometer, 

And  length  of  years  is  lurking  in  the  aneroid 
barometer  ! 

Then  take  this  excellent  advice,  if  you'd  avoid 
necrology, 

And  if  a  hundred  you  would  be — just  study  meteor- 
ology. 


A    CITY  SAINT  131 


A   CITY   SAINT 

There's  a  bell  that  wakes  the  echo  and  renders  incomplete 
The  sullen  shuttered  silence  of  the  solemn  City  street  ! 

SAINT  ALOYS  the  Great  is  both  mouldy  and  grim, 
The  Decalogue's  dusty,  the  windows  are  dim ; 
If  I'm  not  mistaken,  you'll  long  have  to  search 
Before  you  discover  this  old  City  church — 
This  pilgrim  distinctly  declines  to  betray 
The  parish  possessing  the  shrine  of  Saint  May  ! 

A  quaint  little  lane  running  down  by  its  side 
Will  give  you  a  glimpse  of  the  silvery  tide, 
That  sparkles  and  gleams  in  the  sun,  and,  I  ween, 
A  notable  fane,  just  beyond,  may  be  seen. 
But  no  other  church  could  induce  me  to  stray 
From  that,  where  on  Sunday  I  gaze  on  Saint  May ! 

The  one  bell  is  cracked  in  its  crazy  old  tower 
The  sermon  oft  lasts  rather  more  than  an  hour 
The  parson  is  prosy,  the  clerk  eighty-three, 
The  organ  drones  out  in  a  sad  minor  key  : 
Yet  quickly  the  moments,  I  find,  fly  away, 
I  pass  ev'ry  week  'neath  the  spell  of  Saint  May. 


132  A    CITY  SAINT 

She  sits  in  a  high,  ancient,  black  oaken  pew, 
Which  almost  conceals  her  fair  face  from  my  view  ; 
The  sweetest  of  pictures,  it  can't  be  denied, 
With  two  tiny  sisters  who  sit  by  her  side, 
Who  lisp  the  responses  and  kneel  down  to  pray, 
With  little  hands  locked  in  the  palm  of  Saint  May. 

Of  saints  I've  seen  many  in  churches  before — 

In  Venice  or  Florence  they're  there  by  the  score ; 

Agnese,  Chiara — the  rest  I  forget — 

By  Titian,  Bassano,  and  brave  Tintoret — 

Though  doubtless  delightful,  I  fancy  that  they, 

As  pictures,  can't  rival  my  gentle  Saint  May. 

She's  almost  too  young  and  too  plump  for  a  saint, 
With  sweet  little  dimples  that  Millais  might  paint : 
She  wears  no  ascetic  nor  mortified  mien, 
No  wimple  of  yellow,  no  vestment  of  green — 
Her  nimbus  of  hair  throws  a  sunshiny  ray 
Of  glory  around  the  fair  face  of  Saint  May  ! 

What  surquayne  or  partlet  could  look  better  than 
My  saint's  curly  jacket  of  black  Astrakhan  ? 
What  coif,  than  her  hat,  trimmed  with  exquisite  skill, 
Or  alb,  than  her  petticoat,  edged  with  a  frill  ? 
Would  she  honour  and  love,  and  would  she  obey  ? 
I  wonder  while  closely  regarding  Saint  May  ! 


A    CITY  SAINT  133 

The  sermon  is  finished,  the  blessing  is  o'er, 
The  sparse  congregation  drift  out  at  the  door  ; 
I  pause  on  my  way  down  the  gloomy  old  aisle, 
To  see  her  go  by  and  to  hope  for  a  smile  ! 
I'd  daily  change  faith  like  the  Vicar  of  Bray, 
To  pass  all  my  life  in  adoring  Saint  May  ! 

Through  the  weary  dull  week,  as  it  rolls  on  apace, 
I'm  haunted  by  thoughts  of  that  tender  young  face  ; 
And  oft,  O  how  oft,  does  the  vision  arise, 
Of  the  wondrous  charm  of  those  eloquent  eyes  ! 
And  I  long  for  the  hour  and  count  on  the  day, 
When  quite  at  a  distance  I  worship  Saint  May  ! 

No  doubt  you'll  be  vastly  surprised  when  you're 

told 

Her  name,  in  the  Calendar,  ne'er  was  enrolled — 
They  prattled  of  "  May,"  the  sweet  sisterly  pair, 
I  added  the  "  Saint  " — she  was  canonized  there  ! 
If  saints  might  wed  sinners,  I'd  yield  to  her  sway, 
And  joyfully  fall  on  my  knees  to  Saint  May  ! 


134  THE  IMPARTIAL 


THE    IMPARTIAL 

She  finds  it  difficult  to  choose 
Between  the  claims  of  Rival  Blues  ! 

IN  sorrow  and  joy  has  she  seen  the  beginning — 

Her    lightness    of    spirit    half    dashed    by    the 

"  blues  " — 

With  cheers  in  her  heart  for  the  crew  who  are 
winning, 

While  tears  fill  her  eyes  for  those  fated  to  lose. 
If  you'll  narrowly  watch  'mid  the  noise  and  conten- 
tion, 

You'll  note,  as  her  arms  on  the  balcony  rest, 
Forget-me-nots  blent  in  a  bouquet  with  gentian, 

Her  sympathy  showing,  repose  on  her  breast. 
The  tint  of  a  night  in  the  still  summer  weather 

Her  tailor-made  cc  ,tume  just  serves  to  unfold, 
While  delicate  cuffs  are  scarce  fastened  together 

By  dainty-wrought  fetters  of  turquoise  and  gold. 
Ah  !    climax  of  sweet,  girlish,  neutral  devices — 

What  smiles   for  the  winners,   for  losers  what 

sighs  ! — 
She  has  bound  her  fair  hair  with  the  colour  of  Isis, 

While  that  of  the  Cam  glitters  bright  in  her  eyes ! 


HAMBLEDEN  LOCK  135 


HAMBLEDEN    LOCK 


At  Hambleden  Lock  how  the  time  flies  away, 
While  watching  the  traffic,  this  fine  summer  day  ! 


A  CAPITAL  luncheon  I've  had  at  the  "  Lion  "  ; 

I've  drifted  down  here  with  the  light  summer 

breeze ; 
I  land  at  the  bank,  where  the  turf's  brown  and  dry 

on, 

And  lazily  list  to  the  music  of  trees  ! 
O,  sweet  is  the  air,  with  a  perfume  of  clover, 
O,  sleepy  the  cattle  in  Remenham  meads  ! 
The  lull  of  the  lasher  is  soothing,  moreover, 

The  wind  whispers  low  in  the  stream-stricken 

reeds  ! 

When  sunshine  is  hot  and  the  breeze  is  quiescent, 
When  moored  by  the  bank  is  the  swift  "  Shuttle- 
cock " — 

I  think  you  will  own  'tis  uncommonly  pleasant 
To  dream  and  do  nothing  by  Hambleden  Lock  ! 


136  HAMBLEDEN  LOCK 

See    a    barge    blunder    through,    overbearing   and 
shabby, 

With  its  captain  asleep,  and  his  wife  in  command  ; 
Then  a  boatful  of  beauties  for  Medmenham  Abbey, 

And  a  cargo  of  campers  all  tired  and  tanned. 
Two  duffers  collide,  they  don't  know  what  they're 
doing — 

They're  both  in  the  ways  of  the  water  unskilled — 
But  here  is  the  Infant,  so  great  at  canoeing, 

Sweet,  saucy,  short-skirted  and  snowily  frilled. 
I  notice  the  tint  of  a  ribbon  or  feather, 

The  ripple  of  ruffle,  the  fashion  of  frock  ; 
I  languidly  laze  in  the  sweet  summer  weather, 

And  muse  o'er  the  maidens  at  Hambleden  Lock  ! 

You'll   find   endless   charm   in   each   picture   that 

passes — 

O,  had  I  the  art  of  Fred  Walker  or  Sandys  ! 
I'd  joyfully  limn  all  the  gaily  dight  lasses 

And  pretty  girl  scullers  with  pretty  brown  hands  ! 
Now  the  "  Syren  "  steams  in ;    see  the  kind-eyed 

old  colley, 

On  the  deck,  in  the  sun,  how  she  loves  to  recline  ! 
Note  the  well-ordered  craft  and  its  Skipper  so  jolly, 
With  friends,  down  to  Marlow,  he's  taking  to 
dine. 


HAMBLEDEN  LOCK  137 

In  the  snug-curtained  cabin  I  can't  help  espying, 
A  dew-clouded  tankard  of  seltzer-and-hock, 

And  a  plateful  of  peaches  big  babies  are  trying, 
I  note,  as  they  glide  out  of  Hambleden  Lock  ! 

A  punt  passes  in,  with  Waltonians  laden, 

And  boatman  rugose  of  mahogany  hue  ; 
And  then  comes  a  youth  and  a  sunny-haired  maiden, 

Who  sit  vis-d-vis  in  their  basswood  canoe 
Pray  look  at  the  Admiral  steering  the  "  Fairy," 

O,  where  could  he  find  a  much  better  crew  than 
His  dutiful  daughters,  Flo,  Nina,  and  Mary, 

Who    row    with    such    grace    in    his    trim-built 

randan  ? 
I  muse  while  the  water  is  ebbing  and  flowing, 

I  silently  smoke  and  serenely  take  stock 
Of   countless   Thames    toilers,    now   coming,    now 
going, 

Who  take  a  pink  ticket  at  Hambleden  Lock  ! 


138  A   PRIVATE    VJEW 


Where  chesnuts  droop  low,  by  the  Ankerwycke  bend 
A  spot  is  for  lovers  I  shrewdly  perpend. 
For  under  the  cedars  King  Harry,  you  know, 
Made  love  to  A  nne  Boleyn  a  long  time  ago. 


WHERE  chesnut  leaves  dip  in  the  stream, 

Well  shaded  from  the  sunny  gleam, 

'Tis  just  the  spot  to  muse  and  dream — 

In  this  our  friends  agree  ! 
Thus  leaves  fall  back  as  they  pass  through, 
And  patter  on  the  light  canoe  ; 
Then  screen  them  both  from  passing  view 

Beneath  the  chesnut  tree  ! 

I  would  that  I  could  sketch  for  you 
Sweet  Dora  lolling  in  canoe  ; 
Whose  eyes  of  winsome  watchet  hue 
Are  brilliant  as  can  be. 


A   PRIVATE    VIEW  139 

This  dainty,  dimpled,  merry  maid 
Now  laughs  and  queens  it  in  the  shade, 
And  likes  flirtation,  I'm  afraid, 
Beneath  the  chesnut  tree  ! 

What  artist  could  attempt  to  trace 

The  wondrous  charm  and  child-like  grace 

That  swiftly  change  this  April  face 

From  sadness  into  glee  ? 
Or  limn  that  golden  curly  crown, 
The  long  dark  lashes  drooping  down, 
Or  paint  that  pretty  puzzled  frown — 

Beneath  the  chesnut  tree  ? 

And  if  perchance  she  is  put  out, 
Then  you  will  find,  there  is  no  doubt, 
That  Ralph  knows  how  to  cure  that  pout ; 

I'm  very  certain  he — 
When  Dora  tries  to  pout  in  pique 
And  dimples  play  at  hide-and-seek — 
Knows  just  the  language  lips  should  speak — 

Beneath  the  chesnut  tree. 


140  REST 


REST 


When  in  doubt  'tis  better  far 
Not  to  move.    Stay  where  you  are. 


YES  !    Here  I  am  !     I've  drifted  down — 
The  sun  is  hot,  my  face  is  brown — 
Before  the  wind  from  Moulsford  town, 

So  pleasantly  and  fleetly  ! 
But  now  it's  half-past  One  o'clock, 
And  so  I  won't  go  through  the  Lock — 
I'll  stop  and  moor  the  "  Shuttlecock  " 

Beside  the  "  Swan  "  at  Streatley. 

And  when  you're  here,  I'm  told  that  you 
Should  mount  the  Hill  and  see  the  view  ; 
And  gaze  and  wonder,  if  you'd  do 

Its  merits  most  completely  : 
The  air  is  clear,  the  day  is  fine, 
The  prospect  is,  I  know,  divine — 
But  most  distinctly  I  decline 

To  climb  the  Hill  at  Streatley  ! 


REST  141 

My  doctor,  surely  he  knows  best, 
Avers  that  I'm  in  need  of  rest ; 
And  so  I  heed  his  wise  behest 

And  tarry  here  discreetly  : 
'Tis  sweet  to  muse  in  leafy  June, 
"Pis  doubly  sweet  this  afternoon, 
So  I'll  remain  to  muse  and  moon 

Before  the  "  Swan  "  at  Streatley  ! 

But  from  the  Hill,  I  understand, 

You  note  cloud-shadowed  pasture-land  ; 

And  fancy  you  see  Oxford  and 

P'raps  Wallingford  and  Wheatley  : 
Upon  the  winding  Thames  you  gaze, 
And,  though  the  view's  beyond  all  praise, 
I'd  rather  much  sit  here  and  laze 

Than  scale  the  Hill  at  Streatley  ! 

I  sit  and  lounge  here  on  the  grass, 
And  watch  the  River  traffic  pass  ; 
I  note  a  dimpled,  fair  young  lass, 

Who  feathers  low  and  neatly  : 
Her  hands  are  brown,  her  eyes  are  grey, 
And  trim  her  nautical  array — 
Alas  !   she  swiftly  sculls  away, 

And  leaves  the  "  Swan  "  at  Streatley  ! 


142  REST 

She's  gone  !    Yes,  now  she's  out  of  sight ! 
She's  gone  !    But  still  the  sun  is  bright. 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  breezes  light 

With  thyme  are  scented  sweetly  : 
She  may  return  !    So  here  I'll  stay, 
And  just  to  pass  the  time  away, 
I  smoke  and  weave  a  lazy  lay 

About  the  "  Swan  "  at  Streatley  ! 


A   SCULLER'S  SNAPSHOT  143 


A   SCULLER'S   SNAPSHOT 


A  laughing  lass  may  here  be  found 
Who  views  the  passing  through  the  pound 


MlSS    DlMPLECHEEK, 

I  would  that  I 

Instead  of  swiftly  passing  by, 

Could  stay  a  week  : 
To  gossip  with  you  for  awhile 
And  hear  you  laugh  and  see  your  smile, 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ! 

Miss  Dimplecheek, 
Your  winsome  face, 
Your  figure  glad  with  girlish  grace, 

Is  quite  unique  ! 

Your  pretty,  poutful,  childlike  charm, 
E'en  captious  critics  must  disarm — 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ! 


144  A   SCULLER'S  SNAPSHOT 

Miss  Dimplecheek, 
This  summer  day 
I  watch  your  pretty  roses  play 

At  hide  and  seek  ! 

While  York  to  Lancaster  gives  place, 
And  sweeter  grows  -your  winsome  face — 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ! 


Miss  Dimplecheek, 
I  wonder  if 
You  ever  revel  in  a  tiff, 

Or  pout  in  pique  ? 

Or  droop  those  long  dark  lashes  down, 
Or  shake  your  shoulders,  stamp,  or  frown, 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ? 


Miss  Dimplecheek, 
I  gaze,  and  then — 
This  most  cantankerous  of  men 

Grows  mild  and  meek. 

Your  faults  ?    Perchance  you  may  have  some — 
But  to  your  faults  I'm  blind  and  dumb — 

Miss  Dimplecheek. 


A   SCULLER'S  SNAPSHOT  145 

Miss  Dimplecheek, 
If  I  but  knew 
Who  was  the  proud  papa  of  you, 

To  him  I'd  speak  : 
And  get  an  introduction,  so, 
In  course  of  time,  I'd  hope  to  know 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ! 

Miss  Dimplecheek, 
I  cannot  stay, 
Alas  !   I'm  bound  to  go  away  ! — 

The  lock-gates  creak  : 
Ah  !   now,  I  see,  they're  open  wide, 
I  look,  good-bye,  and  off  I  glide — 

Miss  Dimplecheek  ! 


146  AN  OPEN  LETTER 


AN    OPEN    LETTER 

The  danger  that  lurks  in  Chrysanthemum  Shows 
You'll  see  in  this  letter  from  Milly  to  Rose. 

DEAR  ROSE, 

I  never  shall  forget — 

That  is,  I  always  shall  remember — 
The  very  brightest  day,  my  pet, 

We  had  throughout  this  dull  November  I 
I  went  last  Monday,  you  must  know, 

With  Tina,  Mrs.  S.,  and  Clarry, 
To  see  the  Temple  flower-show, 

And  best  of  all,  to  lunch  with  Harry  ! 

We  saw  the  gardens — 'twould  be  sport 

To  watch  the  Benchers  play  lawn-tennis — 
And  chambers  in  a  dingy  court 

Where  Fanny  Bolton  nursed  Pendennis  ; 
The  rooms  where  Goldsmith  lived  and  died, 

The  sycamore  where  Johnson  prated  ; 
The  house  where  Pip  did  once  reside, 

The  Fountain  where  sweet  Ruth  Pinch  waited. 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  147 

We  grasped  a  massive  balustrade — 

The  date,  they  said,  was  Sixteen-Thirty — 
The  way  was  dark,  and  I'm  afraid 

We  found  the  staircase  rather  dirty. 
Those  grim  old  stairs  to  Harry's  Den — 

We  clomb  them  gaily,  nothing  daunted — 
They  still  by  Warrington  and  Pen 

And  other  pleasant  ghosts  are  haunted  ! 

Ah,  what  a  spot,  my  dearest  Rose, 

To  muse  upon  this  queer  old  Den  is  ! 
To  catalogue  its  curios 

I'm  sure  unable  quite  my  pen  is  1 
But  from  its  panes  we  gaze  upon 

The  misty  midday  sun  a-quiver ; 
The  red-sailed  barges  drifting  on, 

The  sparkle  of  the  dear  old  River  ! 

Then  mingling  sweetly  one  perceives — 

'Mid  laughter  light  and  girlish  gabble — 
The  sighing  of  the  autumn  leaves, 

And  music  of  the  Fountain's  babble  ! 
How  quick  my  thoughts  drift  back  again 

To  those  bright  happy  days  at  Hurley — 
A  pleasure  strongly  dashed  with  pain — 

(O,  Harry's  locks  are  brown  and  curly  !) 


148  AN  OPEN  LETTER 

But  Rose,  the  luncheon  !     It  was  grand — 

The  oak,  you  know,  my  love,  was  sported — 
And  all  the  speeches,  understand, 

Were^much  too  good  to  be  reported  ! 
There's  Clarry  and  big  Charlie  Clough — 

It  is  a  case !     I  think  they'll  marry. 
(I  wonder  who  is  good  enough 

For  handsome,  grey-eyed,  laughing  Harry  ?) 

It  soon  grew  dark,  but  I  could  see 

That  clearly  no  one  did  desire  light ; 
For  Tina  and  young  Freddy  B. 

Were  spooning  by  the  fitful  firelight. 
We  stayed  till  late,  for  Mrs.  S. 

The  most  enduring  chaperon  is. 
(And  Harry  sang.  I    I  must  confess 

His  voice  the  richest  baritone  is.) 

Ah,  how  the  moments  quickly  flit 

In  song  and  talk  and  playful  banter  ! 
The  motto  on  the  sundial  writ 

Is  Pereunt  et  imputantur. 
I'm  rather  sad  !    Ah,  what's  the  use  ? 

I  know  you'll  think  I'm  very  silly ; 
I  ever  was  a  little  goose, 

But  always  am,  your  loving  Milly. 


DRIFTING  APART  149 


DRIFTING   APART 


The  leaves  scarce  rustled  in  the  trees, 
And  faintly  blew  the  summer  breeze  ; 
A  damsel  drifted  slowly  down, 
Aboard  her  ship  to  Henley  town; 
A  nd  as  the  white  sail  passed  along, 
A  punted  Poet  sang  this  song  ! 


IN  your  canoe,  love,  when  you  are  going, 

With  white  sail  flowing,  and  merry  song ; 
In  your  canoe,  love,  with  ripples  gleaming 

And  sunshine  beaming,  you  drift  along  ! 
While  you  are  dreaming,  or  idly  singing, 

Your  sweet  voice  ringing,  when  skies  are  blue 
In  summer  days,  love,  on  water-ways,  love, 

You  like  to  laze,  love — in  your  canoe  ! 

In  your  canoe,  love,  I'd  be  a  tripper, 
If  you  were  skipper  and  I  were  mate ; 

In  your  canoe,  love,  where  sedges  shiver 
And  willows  quiver,  we'd  navigate  ! 


ISO  DRIFTING  APART 

Upon  the  River,  you'd  ne'er  be  lonely, 
For,  if  you  only  had  room  for  two, 

I'd  pass  my  leisure  with  greatest  pleasure 
With  you,  my  treasure — in  your  canoe  ! 

In  your  canoe,  love,  when  breezes  sigh  light, 

In  tender  twilight,  we'd  drift  away ; 
In  your  canoe,  love,  light  as  a  feather, 

Were  we  together — what  should  I  say  ? 
In  sunny  weather,  were  Fates  propitious, 

A  tale  delicious  I'd  tell  to  you  ! 
In  quiet  spots,  love,  forget-me-nots,  love, 

We'd  gather  lots,  love — in  your  canoe  ! 


IN  THE  SHADE  151 


IN   THE   SHADE 


Both  joy  and  sorrow  haunt  the  rhymes 
That  strive  to  picture  bygone  times  : 
Or  try  to  paint  some  pleasant  scene 
In  dreamy  Land  of  Might-have-been ! 


THE  chesnuts  droop  low  by  the  River, 

And  sweet  is  the  shade  of  the  trees  ; 
The  dragon-flies  flash  and  they  quiver 

To  somnolent  humming  of  bees  1 
But  here  is  a  spot  of  the  past  time — 

I'm  many  a  mile  from  the  Weir — 
I'll  rest  and  think  over  the  last  time 

I  ventured  to  meditate  here. 
O,  chesnuts  are  shady,  and  golden  are  sheaves, 
And  sweet  is  the  exquisite  music  of  leaves 

I  pause  in  this  quaint  little  harbour, 
Quite  out  of  the  swirl  of  the  stream ; 

With  leaves  overhead  like  an  arbour, 
I  smoke,  and  I  ponder,  and  dream. 


152  IN  THE  SHADE 

The  bank,  with  its  rough  broken  edges, 

Exists  as  in  days  now  remote  ; 
There's  still  the  faint  savour  of  sedges 

And  lilies  fresh  crushed  by  the  boat. 
O,  breezes  are  soft,  and  the  dreamer  receives 
The  rarest  refrain  from  the  music  of  leaves 


A  brown-eyed  and  trustful  young  maiden 

Once  steered  this  identical  skiff, 
Her  lap  with  forget-me-nots  laden. 

I  now  am  forgotten  ;   but  if  ? 

No  matter  !    I  see  the  sweet  glory 

Of  love  in  those  fathomless  eyes  ; 
I  tell  her  an  often-told  story — 

They  sparkle  with  light  and  surprise  ! 
O,  rivers  are  rapid,  and  Syrens  were  thieves, 
Their  music  was  naught  to  the  music  of  leaves  ! 


Ah,  Love,  do  you  ever  remember 
The  stream  and  its  musical  flow  ? 

The  story  I  told  one  September, 
That  song  of  the  leaves  long  ago  ? 


IN  THE  SHADE  153 

Our  love  was  a  beautiful  brief  song, 
As  sweet  as  your  voice  and  your  eyes  ; 

But  frail  as  a  lyrical  leaf-song, 

Inspired  by  the  short  summer  sighs  1 

O,  summer  is  short,  and  the  sculler  still  grieves — 

His  sorrow  is  echoed  in  music  of  leaves  ! 


154  THE  HAYMAKERS 


THE   HAYMAKERS 

When  shines  the  sun,  we  must  make  hay, 
Upon  this  lovely  summer's  day  ! 

BRIGHT  is  the  sunshine,  the  breeze  is  quiescent — 
Leaves    whisper    low    in    the    Upper    Thames 

reaches — 
Blue  is  the  sky,  and  the  shade  mighty  pleasant 

Under  the  beeches  : 
Midsummer  night  is,  they  say,  made  for  dreaming  ; 

Better  by  far  are  the  visions  of  daytime — 
Pink  and  white  frocks  in  the  meadow  are  gleaming- 
Helping  in  Haytime  ! 

Sunshine,  I'm  told,  is  productive  of  freckles — 

Sweet  are  the  zephyrs,  hay-scented  and  soothful — 
Work  is,  of  all  things,  so  said  Mr.  Eccles, 

Good  for  the  youthful ! 
Lazy  the  cattle  are,  red  are  the  rowers, 

Making  a  toil  of  the  sweet  summer  playtime ; 
Hot  are  the  haymakers,  weary  the  tow-ers — 
Thirsty  in  Haytime  ! 


THE  HAYMAKERS  155 

Fair  little  faneuses  in  pretty  pink  dresses, 

Merry  young  maidens  in  saucy  sun-bonnets, 
Dainty  young  damsels  with  hay  in  their  tresses — 

Worthy  of  sonnets  ! 

Here  let  me  lounge,  'neath  the  beeches  umbrageous  ; 
Here  let  me  smoke,  let  me  slumber  and  slay  time, 
Gazing  with  pleasure  on  toilers  courageous — 
Working  in  Haytime  ! 

Under  the  beech  where  it  cool  is  and  shady 

Pouring  the  cream  out  and  crushing  the  berry, 
Evelyn  and  Elsie  and  Hilda  and  Haidee 
Gladly  make  merry  ! 
Laughing  young  labourers,  doubtless  judicious, 

Come  for  reward  when  they  fancy  it's  paytime ; 
Splendid  the  cake  is,  the  tea  is  delicious — 
Grateful  in  Haytime  1 


156  THE  PERFECT  HOLIDAY 


THE    PERFECT   HOLIDAY 


Some  in  climbing  the  Alps  take  the  greatest  delight, 
A  nd  others  are  charmed  with  the  sea  ; 

But  the  glorious  Thames  on  a  still  summer  night 
Appeals  more  directly  to  me  ! 


Now  everyone  is  rushing  right  away, 
And  London's  getting  empty,  so  they  say  : 

The  streets  are  dull  and  torrid 

And  ev'rything  is  horrid, 
With  nothing  to  induce  you  there  to  stay  ! 
The  stations  now  are  crowded  to  excess 
With  flyers  from  the  smoky  wilderness  ; 

Who  block  up  all  the  wickets 

And  clamour  loud  for  tickets 
By  "  scursion,"  or  by  "  parly,"  or  express  ! 

Out  of  town  !    Out  of  town  ! 

Ev'ryone  is  anxious  to  run  down 
To  the  ocean  or  the  stream. 
Where  they're  glad  enough  to  dream, 

For  they  find  it  mighty  pleasant — out  of  town 


THE  PERFECT  HOLIDAY  157 

Some  clad  in  deftly  fashioned  summer  suits, 
And  revelling  in  Russian  russet  boots, 

Are  starting  in  a  hurry 

With  Bradshaw  and  with  Murray, 
Well  furnished,  too,  with  "  circulars  "  from  Coutts  ! 
All  Switzerland  they're  bound  to  scamper  through, 
And  countless  peaks  and  passes  will  they  do. 

With  climbing  most  quixotic 

And  language  polyglotic, 

Where  mountains  white  gleam  bright  against  the 
blue! 

Out  of  town  !    Out  of  town  ! 

Then  dull  Care,  they  most  carefully  will  drown  ! 
And  they'll  think  it  very  nice 
To  shin  up  a  wall  of  ice, 

With  their  crampons  and  their  bdtons — out  of 
town  ! 


But  others  love  to  wander  by  the  sea, 
With  briny  breezes  blowing  fresh  and  free, 

Along  with  merry  maidens, 

To  listen  to  its  cadence — 
When  sighing  on  the  sand  in  minor  key  ! 
The  best  thing,  I  assure  you,  ever  known 
To  benefit  your  spirits  and  your  tone — 


158  THE  PERFECT  HOLIDAY 

Is  charming  girlish  chatter, 

'Mid  melody  of  clatter, 
With  sunshine  and  light  laughter  and  ozone  ! 

Out  of  town  !    Out  of  town  ! 

The  breezes  salt  soon  waft  away  your  frown  ! 
As  you  wander  on  the  sands 
Or  you  nod  to  brazen  bands, 

And  you  feel  a  great  deal  better — out  of  town  ! 

The  Thames  is,  after  all,  beyond  our  praise 
With  ever  witching  charm  and  waterways 

Where  willows  shade  with  beeches 

Its  backwaters  and  reaches 
Are  certainly  ideal  spots  to  laze  ! 
We  find  the  dear  old  River  always  bright ; 
The  early  swim,  as  ever,  pure  delight ; 

While  drifting  in  the  twilight, 

And  dreaming  in  its  shy  light — 
The  weir  still  sadly  sings  through  summer  night  1 

Out  of  town  !    Out  of  town  ! 

Where  faces  get  superlatively  brown, 
In  punt,  dinghy,  or  canoe, 
I  am  very  certain  you 

Find  your  holiday  is  perfect — out  of  town  ! 


A     SONG   ON  SKATES  159 


A   SONG   ON   SKATES 

This  sweet  little  syren  in  sable, 
Who  looks  so  bewitchingly  nice, 

Is  willing  and  ready  and  able 
To  tempt  one  on  dangerous  ice  I 

IT  seems  not  long  ago 

The  banks  were  sweet  with  clover 
But  now  they're  white  with  snow — 

The  Thames  is  frozen  over  ! 
'Twas  only  last  July 

I  punted  here  with  Lilla  ; 
Now  o'er  the  ice  I  try 

To  skate  with  Miss  Chinchilla  ! 

She  wears  the  shortest  skirts 

And  shows  the  whitest  frilling ; 
She  looks,  this  Queen  of  Flirts, 

Miraculously  killing  1 
She'll  skim  the  thinnest  ice, 

As  light  as  Queen  Camilla  ; 
She  seems  supremely  nice — 

This  dimpled  Miss  Chinchilla  ! 


160  A   SONG   ON  SKATES 

The  sleekest  otter  cuffs, 

The  rosiest  of  real  skin, 
The  sable-est  of  muffs. 

The  softest  gloves  of  sealskin. 
Black  silken  hose  with  clocks, 

A  cloud  like  a  mantilla, 
And  velvetest  of  frocks — 

Wears  merry  Miss  Chinchilla 

O,  should  the  gracious  fates 

But  deign  to  be  propitious  ! 
I  fix  her  acme  skates 

On  furry  boots  delicious  : 
And  then  we  speed  away, 

In  spite  of  Aunt  Priscilla, 
Regarding  with  dismay 

The  flight  of  Miss  Chinchilla  ! 

The  warmth  of  her  regard, 

I  take  to  be  a  token. 
Although  it's  freezing  hard 

Our  social  ice  is  broken  ! 
Coquettish  in  her  furs — 

She  minds  not  my  Manila — 
O,  what  a  glance  is  hers, 

This  lovely  Miss  Chinchilla  ! 


A  SONG  ON  SKATES  161 

Had  I  enough  a  year 

To  find  my  sweet  in  sable ; 
To  wrap  my  dainty  dear 

In  ermine  were  I  able  : 
Had  I  but  riches,  fame, 

A  pleasant  Thames-side  villa — 
I'd  hope  to  change  the  name 

Of  charming  Miss  Chinchilla  ! 


162     THE  DIRGE   OF  THE   DUMB-BARGEE 


THE  DIRGE   OF  THE   DUMB- 
BARGEE 

He  sang  a  song  in  a  minor  key — 
The  dismal  Dirge  of  the  Dumb-bargee  ! 

O,  WHO  would  be  a  Dumb-bargee 

Enduring  grief  and  pain  ? 
To  moil  and  toil,  to  toil  and  moil, 

In  sunshine  or  in  rain  ? 
Pray  who  would  crack  his  stalwart  back 

By  pulling  like  a  fool  ? 
When  he  could  ride  the  flowing  tide. 

From  Greenwich  to  the  Pool  ! 

At  Lime'us  I  feel  very  dry 

And  quite  inclined  to  trapes  ; 
I'd  like,  I  think,  a  long,  long  drink, 

Within  the  "  Bunch  of  Grapes." 
But  I  must  glide  upon  the  tide, 

Although  my  tongue  doth  burn, 
I  cannot  pause,  you  know,  because 

The  tide  will  shortly  turn  ! 


THE  DIRGE   OF  THE  DUMB-BARGEE     163 

I  grunt  and  tug,  I  groan  and  lug, 

The  sun  is  hot  as  fire, 
I  pull  my  sweep  and  slowly  creep 

While  freely  I  perspire. 
When  I  essay  to  light  my  clay, 

'Twill  very  soon  be  found, 
As  I  let  go  the  sweeps,  you  know, 

The  barge  swings  round  and  round  ! 

At  Shadwell's  "  Ship  "  I'd  take  a  nip 

And,  had  I  but  the  luck, 
I'd  drain  a  pot — O,  would  I  not  ? — 

At  Deptford's  "  Dog  and  Duck." 
While  as  I  crawl  by  Wapping  Wall 

And  feeling  almost  done, 
I'd  like  to  stop  and  take  a  drop 

At  "  Whitby  "  or  the  "  Sun  "  ! 
This  is  denied  by  ruthless  tide. 

Which  always  does  its  worst, 
To  ever  ban  an  honest  man 

Or  quench  an  honest  thirst ! 

With  heat  distrest,  sometimes  I  rest 

Right  in  a  steamer's  way ; 
The  vessel  slows,  the  syren  blows, 

While  all  have  much  to  say  ! 


164     THE  DIRGE   OF  THE  DUMB-BARGEE 

And  then,  no  doubt,  are  flung  about 

Words  violent  and  vain  ; 
And  as  at  me  they're  flung,  you  see — 

I  hurl  'em  back  again  ! 

At  Rotherhithe  it  makes  me  writhe 

To  know  I  cannot  stay, 
And  find  a  chum  to  stand  some  rum 

At  "  Angel  "  or  "  Torbay." 
But  on  I  float,  with  parched  throat — 

For  duty  I  can't  shirk — 
My  barge  I  guide  and  see  the  tide 

Fails  not  to  do  its  work  ! 

I  pull  with  strength — fall  back  at  length, 

Then  linger  on  the  tideway  ; 
My  craft's  accurst,  it  goes  stern  first, 

And  oft  progresses  sideway  ! 
For  when  I  keep  each  hand  on  sweep, 

I'm  troubled  much  with  midges  ; 
So  scarcely  clear  the  steam-boat  pier 

And  bump  against  the  bridges  ! 
Of  ev'ry  ill,  I  have  my  fill, 

But  this  goes  unrecorded  ; 
And  thus  you  see  the  Dumb-bargee 

Is  ever  unrewarded  ! 


OFF  GRAVES  END  165 


OFF   GRAVESEND 


The  day  is  hot,  the  waters  high 
A  nd  almost  cloudless  is  the  sky  : 
While  lazy  craft  at  anchor  ride 
They  seem  to  slumber  on  the  tide  ! 


ON  Gravesend  Pier,  one  lovely  day, 
I  lounged  to  pass  the  time  away, 

To  see  what  could  be  seen : 
And  thence  beheld  the  winsome  maid- 
Aboard  a  cutter  in  the  shade — 

I've  christened  Tarpauline  I 

A  pretty  picture,  is  she  not, 
Beneath  the  awning  of  the  yacht  ? 

This  beauty  of  Eighteen, 
She  wears  a  trim  tarpaulin  hat, 
So  now  you  know  the  reason  that 

I  call  her  Tarpauline. 


1 66  OFF  GRAVESEND 

A  neat  serge  dress  of  Navy  blue, 
A  boatswain's  silver  whistle,  too, 

She  sports  now  she's  afloat ; 
An  open  collar,  and,  I  wot, 
A  veritable  sailor's  knot 

Around  her  graceful  throat. 

She  has  a  glance  that  pleads  and  kills, 
And  'mid  her  shy  and  snowy  frills 

A  little  foot  appears  ; 
She  has  the  softest  sunny  locks, 
The  compass  she  knows  how  to  box, 

And,  when  it's  needful — ears  ! 

The  smartest  little  sailor-girl, 

Who'll  steer  or  "  bear  a  hand  "  or  furl, 

And  I  am  told  she  oft 
Quite  longs  to  reef  her  petticoats. 
And  gleefully  to  "  girl  the  boats  " 

Or  glibly  go  aloft ! 

With  shapely,  dimpled,  sunburnt  hand, 
She  pats  the  solemn  Newfoundland 

Who  slumbers  at  her  side. 
She's  thinking — not  of  me  nor  you — 
When  smiling  as  she  listens  to 

The  lapping  of  the  tide. 


OFF  GRAVESEND  167 

O,  were  I  pressed  aboard  that  ship, 
How  joyfully  I'd  take  a  trip, 

For  change  of  air  and  scene  ! 
I'd  soon  pack  up  a  carpet-bag, 
And  gladly  sail  beneath  the  flag 

Of  bonny  Tarpauline  ! 


1 68         THE  RIPARIAN  PHILOSOPHER 


THE   RIPARIAN    PHIL.OSOPHER 


On  the  lawn  'math  the  lime,  fairly  screened  from  the 

sun 

Do  I  sit,  and  I  smoke,  now  that  breakfast  is  done  ; 
How  I  envy  the  swans  in  the  shade  of  the  stream, 
While  I  pity  the  oarsmen  who  toil  in  the  gleam 
A  nd  the  punter  who  pushes  his  craft  quick  along — 
As  I  venture  to  preach  a  short  sermon  in  song  ! 


THE  ruddy  ripe  tomata, 

In  china  bowl  of  ice  ; 
And  grouse  worth  a  sonata, 

Undoubtedly  are  nice  ! 
A  pint  of  sound  Hocheimer, 

A  dainty  speckled  trout, 
Suffices  for  the  Rhymer, 

To  break  his  fast  no  doubt ! 
I  watch  the  busy  bees  on 

The  leaf  beneath  the  lime  : 
It's  much  too  hot  for  reason, 

And  far  too  warm  for  rhyme  ! 


THE  RIPARIAN  PHILOSOPHER        169 

Tis  hot  as  in  the  tropics — 

Too  hot  to  ride  or  walk — 
I  have  no  store  of  topics, 

I  do  not  care  to  talk  ! 
No  matutinal  journal 

I've  seen,  but  I  don't  fret, 
While  'neath  this  shade  supernal, 

I  smoke  a  cigarette  ! 
I  care  not  for  the  Season, 

Trade,  politics,  or  crime  : 
It's  much  too  hot  for  reason, 

And  far  too  warm  for  rhyme  ! 


Pray,  who  would  wear  a  tall  hat  ? 

Or,  buttoned  in  frock-coat, 
Would  countless  places  call  at, 

When  he  might  moon  in  boat  ? 
Exploring  river  reaches, 

And  doing  naught  at  all, 
But  plucking  juicy  peaches 

That  ripen  on  the  wall  I 
I  put  just  what  I  please  on, 

I  take  no  heed  of  time  : 
It's  much  too  hot  for  reason, 

And  far  too  warm  for  rhyme  ! 


170         THE  RIPARIAN  PHILOSOPHER 

My  thoughts  all  run  together, 

Regretfully  I  find  ; 
They're  melted  by  the  weather, 

To  shapeless  mass  of  mind  1 
It's  much  too  hot  for  thinking, 

Too  sultry  'tis  to  chaff  ; 
For  eating  or  for  drinking, 

Too  torrid  e'en  to  laugh  ! 
I  know  this  sounds  like  treason — 

I  do  not  care  one  dime — 
It's  much  too  hot  for  reason, 

And  far  too  warm  for  rhyme  ! 


A  SENSELESS  BARCAROLLE  171 


A   SENSELESS   BARCAROLLE 


0,  the  songs  of  the  River,  they  frequently  bore  us 
As  oft  no  one  knows  what  the  ditty's  about; 

But  a  good  stirring  air  with  a  rollicking  chorus 
Will  be  a  success,  you  will  find,  beyond  doubt. 


THE  twilight  glistens  green  and  grey, 

The  sulky  sedges  shiver  ; 
We  sing  the  dirge  of  dead  to-day, 

While  magic  moonbeams  quiver. 
The  dusky  dab-chick  loves  to  dream, 

The  brindled  bat  is  flapping — 
Deep  in  the  secret  of  the  stream 

The  timid  trout  is  napping  ! 

CHORUS 

O,  then  we'll  take  a  boat,  my  love, 
And  quickly  loose  its  tether  ; 

And  when  we  are  afloat,  my  love, 
We'll  float  away  together  ! 


172          A   SENSELESS  BARCAROLLE 

The  rigid  rullocks  scroop  and  groan, 

The  eels  are  on  the  sniggle ; 
The  coughing  cow  is  left  alone, 

The  madid  minnows  giggle  ! 
The  weeping  willows  wipe  their  eyes, 

The  cunning  corncrakes  mumble  ; 
The  blatant  bulrush  softly  sighs, 

The  gaping  gentles  grumble  ! 

CHORUS 

O,  then  we'll  drift  away,  my  love, 
And  will  not  heed  the  weather  : 

Though  prudence  bids  us  stay,  my  love, 
We'll  drift  away  together  ! 


THE    WATER-GIRL  173 


THE   WATER-GIRL 


To  a  very  old  air,  here's  a  very  new  song  ; 

Let  us  hope  that  Charles  Dibdin  will  help  me  along. 


I  WAITED  last  Monday  at  Medmenham  Ferry,  well, 
Anxious  for  someone  to  ferry  me  o'er  : 

The  man  was  at  dinner,  and  I  could  tell  very  well 
He  would  not  return  for  an  hour  or  more. 

So  I  sat  me  down  and  smoked  so  steadily. 

What  should  I  do  ?     I  could  not  tell  readily. 
A  maiden  rowed  by  who  had  soft  sunny  hair, 
Whose  dimples  and  eyes  were  beyond  all  com- 
pare— 
This  Water-Girl  was  so  uncommonly  fair  ! 

But  only  to  think,  as  I  pondered  there  wearily, 
And  gazed  at  the  Abbey,  and  thought  it  a  bore, 

She   leant   on   her   sculls,    and    she    offered    most 

cheerily 
To  row  me  across  to  the  opposite  shore  ! 


174  THE    WATER-GIRL 

I  said,  "  How  kind  !  "    She  pouted  capriciously  ! 

I  stepped  aboard,  and  she  smiled  deliciously  ! 
She  rowed  off  at  once  with  so  charming  an  air, 
And  feathered  her  sculls  with  such  neatness  and 

care — 
This  Water-Girl  was  so  deliciously  fair  ! 

For  once  I'm  in  luck — there  is  not  the  least  doubt 
of  it! 

Alas  that  the  voyage  is  concluded  so  soon  1 
The  skiff's  by  the  shore,  and  I  slowly  get  out  of  it, 

And  wish  the  fair  damsel  "  a  good  afternoon." 
I  raise  my  hat  and  she  looks  so  thrillingly  ! 
I  thank  her  much,  and  depart  unwillingly  ! 

Her  eyes  were  so  bright  and  her  grace  was  so  rare  ; 

She  leaves  a  heart  broken  beyond  all  repair  ! — 

This  Water-Girl  was  so  surpassingly  fair  ! 


PARADISE  LOST  175 


PARADISE   LOST 


Quickness  of  communication, 
A  bsence  of  all  veneration, 
Overdose  of  education — 

These,  I'll  venture  to  engage, 
With,  allow  me  just  to  mention, 
Everlasting  new  invention — 

Form  the  curses  of  the  age  ! 


IN  Chelsea  you'll  find  still,  I  trust  it  is  so, 

An  old-fashioned  house  in  an  old-fashioned  row. 

These  weather-worn  buildings  must  be,  so  I'm  told, 

Now  very  much  over  two  centuries  old  ! 

My  house  was  the  one  with  the  canopied  door, 

And  finely  toned  bricks  which  a  vine  clambered 

o'er ; 

With  square-headed  rain-pipes  and  bracketed  eaves, 
And  white  window-sashes  embowered  in  leaves ; 
With  high  roof  and  dormers,  whence  we  could  espy 
Red  sails  on  the  River  drift  dreamily  by. 


176  PARADISE  LOST 

In  front  was  a  forecourt,  demurely  sedate, 

And  globe-crested  piers  and  a  tall  hammered  gate — 

'Tis  only  a  sketch,  but  suffices  to  show 

Where  I  stayed,  as  a  child,  once  in  Paradise  Row  ! 

The  finely  wrought  gate  with  its  musical  screech, 
The  gleaming  brass  knocker  far  out  of  my  reach, 
I  see,  and  likewise,  when  the  door's  opened  wide, 
A  snug  little  hall,  somewhat  sombre,  inside, 
And  staircase  ascending,  with  carved  balustrade, 
Once  swept  by  a  Duchess's  flowered  brocade  ! 
Those  steps,  too,  once  knew,  with  their  creaking 

oak  boards, 

The  jingle  of  spurs  and  the  clatter  of  swords  ! 
'Twas  there  stood  the  silver-faced  grandfather's  clock. 
With  querulous  chime  and  a  strident  tick-tock ; 
With  three  brazen  balls  and  a  dark,  polished  case, 
Which  faintly  reflected  my  figure  and  face, 
When,  sleepy,  I  climbed  to  my  room,  where  you 

know 
Once  beauties  were  powdered  in  Paradise  Row  ! 

The  garden  behind,  somewhat  tangled  and  wild, 
Presented  a  world  of  romance  to  a  child  ! 
The  ornate  lead  cistern  I  clearly  recall, 
The  fig  that  o'er-shadowed  the  battered  brick  wall, 


PARADISE  LOST  177 

With  crannies  and  chinks,  specked  with  russets  and 

greys, 

Like  Millais  so  loved  in  his  "  Huguenot  "  days  ! 
Those  giant  box-borders,  in  fancy,  I  see, 
The  daffodils  nodding,  the  gnarled  cherry-tree, 
The  moss-covered  sundial,  the  wallflowers  too, 
The  sturdy  green  flag  with  its  bourgeon  of  blue. 
O,  'twas  joy  'neath  the  lilac  to  lazily  swing, 
When  golden  laburnum  was  gay  in  the  Spring  ! 
'Twas  sweet  in  the  sunshine  to  swing  to  and  fro 
In  peace  and  in  quiet  in  Paradise  Row  ! 


A  big  sunny  chamber — upstairs — one  recalls, 
With  rare  moulded  ceiling  and  fine  panelled  walls  : 
I  loved  there  to  lounge,  on  the  wide  window-seat, 
And  peer  through  the  vine-leaves  and  gaze  on  the 

street ; 

Or  view  the  collection  of  pictures  and  prints 
And  shabby  black  frames  of  the  old  mezzotints. 
The  quaint  Chelsea  figures  and  beakers  of  delf 
That  stolidly  stood  on  the  carved  mantelshelf, 
The  portrait  by  Lely,  enveloped  in  gloom, 
The  eagle-decked  mirror  reflecting  the  room — 
All  these  I  remember,  and  cannot  forget 
The  tremulous  tones  of  the  ancient  spinet  ; 

N 


178  PARADISE  LOST 

Now  plaintive  and  solemn,  now  gleeful  and  gay 
With  songs  of  the  past  and  the  lilt  of  the  day. 
Ah  !  life  was  worth  living  when  long,  long  ago 
We  dreamed  and  did  nothing  in  Paradise  Row  ! 

Comes  back  crisp  and  clear  out  of  memory's  haze 
The  charm  of  those  glad  irresponsible  days  ! 
The  trips  on  the  steamer  to  Putney  and  Kew, 
When  all  things  were  wondrous  and  all  things  were 

new  ! 

Those  strolls  through  the  Hospital  precinct  where  we 
The  much-medalled  heroes  might  frequently  see  : 
The  old  Physic  Garden  we  thoroughly  knew 
Before  the  last  cedar  had  faded  from  view  ; 
And  dearest  of  all,  among  juvenile  joys, 
Was,  doubtless,  the  band  of  the  Duke  of  York's  Boys  I 
Of  sweet  summer  Sundays  I  venture  to  dream, 
And  mornings  at  church  by  the  side  of  the  stream — 
That  picturesque  fane  on  a  picturesque  shore, 
With  charming  old  chapels  of  Lawrence  and  More  : 
With  tombs  and  chained  Bibles  of  which  we'd  a 

view 

When  snugly  ensconced  in  our  high  oaken  pew. 
Thence    homeward    we    strolled,    as    the    leaves 

whispered  low, 
Along  Cheyne  Walk  back  to  Paradise  Row. 


PARADISE  LOST  179 

You  don't  know  the  spot  ?     Well,  I'll  soon  take 

you  there — 

It's  just  round  the  comer.  .  .  .  'Tis  gone,  I  declare ! 
The  fig-tree  uprooted,  the  vine  torn  away, 
The  garden  no  longer  delightful  and  gay  ! 
The  dignified  Row  and  its  forecourts  have  fled — 
"  Desirable  mansions  "  now  reign  in  their  stead  ! 
In  place  of  the  finely  toned  buildings,  we  scan 
A  mass  of  new  houses,  all  "  modern  Queen  Anne  "  ; 
With  latest  improvements  which,    doubtless,   are 

nice ; 

With  lifts  and  the  newest  electric  device. 
No  wonder  bricks  blush  and  the  woodwork  turns 

white 

At  daring  to  dwell  on  this  time-honoured  site  ! 
A  malapert  motor-car  goes  tearing  past, 
With  Stygian  stink  and  a  blattering  blast — 
No  wonder  with  fierce  indignation  we  glow 
And  mourn  the  extinction  of  Paradise  Row  ! 

The  old  place  is  gone,  but  I'm  told  its  ghosts 

walk, 
'Twixt  midnight  and  morn  is  heard  laughter  and 

talk: 

A  babble  of  basset,  a  hint  of  high  play, 
A  nutter  of  fans,  a  reluctance  to  pay. 


i8o  PARADISE  LOST 

'Tis  rumoured  you  hear,  if  you  chance  to  be  there, 
An  old-world  coranto  pervading  the  air, 
Announcing,  when  small  hours  are  clanged  from 

Saint  Luke's, 

A  peerless  procession  of  Paradise  spooks, 
Who  meet  there  and  chatter  on  dark  winter  nights, 
Concerning  the  status  of  ghosts  and  their  rights  ! 
Then  Ranelagh  revellers  come  back  in  troops, 
In  powder  and  patches,  in  masks  and  in  hoops, 
In  nebulous  guise  through  the  darkness  they  float, 
From  phantom  sedan  or  a  weird  whirlicote. 
'Mid  shades  of  the  past,  you'll  discover,  I  trow, 
Lurk  wraiths  now  evicted  from  Paradise  Row  ! 

You  fancy  you  hear,  'mid  the  prattle  and  din, 
The  musical  laughter  of  arch  Nelly  Gwyn, 
Who  seems  to  be  ready  to  join  in  a  jig 
With  Pepys,  wondrous  smart,  in  his  new  periwig  ! 
And  note,  with  Sir  Hans,  who's  enjoying  the  fun, 
The  Walpoles — Sir  Robert  and  Horace  his  son — 
With   Ormonde's  fair  Duchess   who   seeks   for   in 

vain 
Her  house,  and  great  Mead  with  his  gold-headed 

cane : 

And  gallant  Frank  Windham,  so  true  to  the  King, 
Whose  deeds  it  were  meet  for  a  poet  to  sing  ! 


PARADISE  LOST  181 

The  beauteous  Mazarin  comes  back  again 
With  faithful  Saint  Evremond  still  in  her  train  ; 
While  peppery  Pope  and  Dean  Swift  are  both  there; 
With  Hanway's  umbrella  to  shelter  the  pair. 
And  Dibdin  and  Doggett  make  merry,  they  say, 
Till  silvery  dawn  comes  to  scare  them  away.  .  .  . 
The  River  may  ebb  and  the  River  may  flow, 
But  vanished  for  ever  is  Paradise  Row  ! 

Here  the  Rhymer  must  pause,  for  he  knows  to  his  cost 
None  but  Milton  could  sing  about  Paradise  Lost  I 


PART    IV 


HOLLAND.  ON-  THAMES  1 85 


HOLLAND-ON-THAMES 


A  verdant  isle  still  wearing  Holland's  touch, 
Demure,  delightful,  and  distinctly  Dutch  ! 


SEEING  the  day  is  bright, 
Sun  hot  and  breezes  light, 
Surely  I  think  we  might 

Now  take  a  wherry  ; 
Then  if  you  feel  inclined 
Benfleet  to  leave  behind, 
Holland  you'll  quickly  find 

Over  the  Ferry  ! 

Here,  where  we  land,  you  know, 
Once  was  the  marsh — 'tis  so — 
Croppenburgh,  long  ago, 

Drained  into  dry  land  : 
Once  it  was  nigh  forgot ; 
Now  it  is — is  it  not  ? — 
Doubtless  a  pleasant  spot 

Called  Canvey  Island  ! 


1 86  HOLLAND-  ON-  THAMES 

Sluice-house,  dyke,  dam  and  such, 
Grass  expanse,  over  much, 
Give  it  an  aspect  Dutch — 

Simply  entrancing  ! 
Widening  to  greet  the  sea, 
Just  here  the  Thames  might  be 
Part  of  the  Zuyder  Zee — 

Gleaming  and  glancing ! 

Quaint  little  church  explore, 
Stroll  on  the  shelly  shore, 
Polders  green  wander  o'er — 

Breezy  and  spacious ; 
Dutch  houses,  age  untold, 
(Centuries,  doubtless,  old) 
Here  might  a  tale  unfold — 

Were  they  loquacious  ! 

They  might  tell,  it  was  here, 
In  a  long- vanished  year, 
That  the  Dutch  raised  a  cheer 

For  their  pet  fighter  ! 
As  the  ships  sailed  away, 
Gorgeous  in  nagged  array, 
Into  the  battle  fray — 

Gallant  De  Ruyter ! 


HOLLAND-  ON-  THAMES  187 

From  the  Hope,  veiled  in  gloom, 
Heard  they  the  cannon  boom — 
England's  or  Holland's  doom  ? 

Doubtful  position  ! 
Saw  they  the  fireship  flash 
Making  a  fiendish  dash, 
With  an  appalling  crash — 

Blown  to  perdition  ! 

Now  at  the  "  Lobster  Smack  " 
Doubtless  you  will  attack 
Boldly  the  midday  snack — 

Laughing  and  joking ; 
Afterwards  sit  outside, 
On  the  sea-wall  abide, 
Watching  the  flowing  tide — 

Lazily  smoking ! 

Here  you  may  moon  and  laze, 

Watch  sleepy  cattle  graze 

All  through  the  summer  days — 

Guiltless  of  hurry  ! 
Here  you  may  take  your  ease. 
Do  and  go  as  you  please  ; 
No  one  to  bore  or  tease — 

No  one  to  worry  ! 


1 88  HOLLAND-  ON-  THA  MES 

Flows  the  Thames  peacefully, 
While  to  the  norrard  we 
Hadleigh's  old  castle  see, 

Crowning  the  high  land. 
Hot  is  the  summer  day, 
Sweet  is  the  scent  of  hay, 
Swiftly  time  flies  away — 

At  Canvey  Island  ! 


A   SECRET 


A   SECRET 

The  Sculler  was  lazy,  the  Pilot  was  merry, 

That  morning  they  drifted  by  Bablock  Hythe  Ferry  ! 

He  leant  on  his  sculls  and  he  gazed  in  her  eyes, 

But  what  he  read  there  I  don't  dare  to  surmise  ; 

'Mid  (he  sigh  of  the  sedges,  the  song  of  the  trees, 

This  question  came  borne  on  the  light  summer  breeze. 

Di  !    Away  from  friends  suspicious, 

Shyly  sweet,  and  sweetly  shy — 
Do  not  think  me  injudicious, 
Di  ! 

Tell  me,  darling,  tell  me  why, 

If  the  Fates  should  be  propitious. 
Tell  me  why  you  softly  sigh  ? 

Drooping  hazel  eyes  delicious, 
Will  you  tell  me  by-and-by  ? 
Curly,  coyful,  and  capricious, 
Di! 

It  can't  be  expected  that  I  should  reveal 
The  private  affairs  of  the  Girl  at  the  Wheel, 
But  young  men  and  maidens,  I  clearly  foresee, 
Wilt  wonder  what  Diana's  answer  could  be  ! 


1 90  WHITE   WINGS 


WHITE   WINGS 


By  bank  and  bush,  by  rush  and  reed, 
The  white  wings,  gleaming,  onward  speed  ! 


THE    MANIFEST. 

SHE  was  cargo  and  crew, 

She  was  boatswain  and  skipper, 
She  was  passenger  too, 
In  her  basswood  canoe  ; 
While  the  eyes  were  so  blue — 
And  so  thrillingly  true — 

Of  this  smart  little  tripper  ! 
She  was  cargo  and  crew, 

She  was  boatswain  and  skipper  ! 

THE  PILOT 

How  I  bawled,  "  Ship,  ahoy  1  " 
Hard  by  Medmenham  Ferry  ! 
And  she  answered  with  joy, 
She  would  like  a  convoy 
For  her  bark,  the  "  San  Toy," 


WHITE    WINGS  191 

And  would  love  to  employ 

A  bold  pilot  so  merry  : 
How  I  bawled,  "  Ship,  ahoy  !  " 

Hard  by  Medmenham  Ferry  ! 

THE   VOYAGE 

Ah  !  the  River  gleamed  bright 
In  the  sweet  Summer  weather. 

With  our  sails  trimmed  aright, 

In  the  sun  flashing  white — 

Spread  like  wings  for  a  flight, 

For  the  breezes  were  light 
As  we  drifted  together : 

Ah  !  the  River  gleamed  bright 
In  the  sweet  Summer  weather. 

THE   HAVEN 

'Neath  the  wide  spreading  tree, 

At  a  flower-decked  table, 
On  the  lawn  taking  tea 
Tis  delightful  to  see 
And  most  pleasant  to  be 
With  Maud,  Minnie,  and  Mie 

And  meticulous  Mabel  ; 
'Neath  the  wide  spreading  tree. 

At  a  flower-decked  table. 


1 92  A    WEATHER    WAIL 


A  WEATHER  WAIL 

Under  Wallingford  Bridge,  seeking  shelter  in  vain, 
Growled  a  bard  in  a  boat,  he  was  deluged  with  rain  ! 
The  thunder  was  loud,  as  the  storm  swept  along, 
He  sat  there  and  sang — so  pray  list  to  his  song  ! 

WHAT  is  the  use  of  forecasts  and  barometers  ? 

Silly  the  study  of  air  and  of  sea  ! 
Useless  are  weathercocks,  warnings,  thermometers, 

Storm-drums  and  signals  mean  nothing  to  me  ! 
Hopeless  the  conning  of  clouds  and  hygrometers — 

No  one  can  tell  what  the  weather  will  be  ! 
Useless  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather  is  he — 
He  cannot  tell  what  the  weather  will  be  ! 

Weatherwise  prophets  are  proud  and  pragmatical — 
Heed  not  their  prating  at  night  or  at  morn  ! 

Do  not  take  notice  of  twinges  rheumatical, 
Treat  all  catarrhical  symptoms  with  scorn  ! 

Disregard  dartings  in  regions  hepatical, 

Mind  not  the  shoot  of  your  favourite  corn  ! 

Captious  the  climate,  I  think  you'll  agree — 

No  one  can  tell  what  the  weather  will  be  ! 


A    WEATHER    WAIL  193 

Lured  by  the  sunshine,  so  bright  and  magnetical — 
How  you  will  grieve  if  your  Gamp  you've  forgot ! 

If  in  fur  garments  you're  peripatetical, 

Doubtless  you'll  find  that  the  day  will  be  hot : 

Should  you  wear  clothes  that  are  thin  and  aesthetical 
Then  the  nor'-easter  will  blow — will  it  not  ? 

Coy  as  a  woman  and  fickle  as  she — 

No  one  can  tell  what  the  weather  will  be  ! 


194  NINETY  IN  THE  SHADE 


NINETY   IN   THE   SHADE 


When  the  glass  is  at  ninety  a  man  is  a  fool 
Who  directs  not  his  efforts  to  try  to  keep  cool  ! 


How  doth  the  lazy   Rhymer  now  improve  each 

shining  hour, 

By  doing  nothing  all  the  day  with  all  his  well- 
known  power  ! 
How  he  delights  to  meditate,  how  well  he  likes  to 

laze, 
To  lounge  and  loaf,  to  wink  and  blink  through  sultry 

summer  days  ! 
En-hammocked  he  is  well  content,   and  joyfully 

perceives 
The  lilt  of  lightsome  lyrics  in  the  music  of  the 

leaves  ; 
And   swinging   to   the   leafy   lay,   in  snowy   garb 

arrayed, 
Finds  life  is  mighty  pleasant  though  it's  Ninety  in 

the  Shade  ! 


NINETY  IN  THE  SHADE  195 

Aboard   the   white   "  Athena,"   which  is   moored 

beneath  the  trees, 
Upon  its  roof  he  loves  to  sing  and  swing  and  take 

his  ease  ! 
The  thought  of  thinking  makes  him  hot,  he's  more 

inclined  to  dream 

To  lullaby  of  leafage  and  the  singing  of  the  stream  ; 
Then  how  he  loves  to  listen  to  the  weir's  eternal 

roar, 
The  rhythm  of  the  rullock  and  the  music  of  the 

oar  1 
And  as  he  sees  perspiring  friends  go  pulling  swiftly 

by, 
Regards  their  honest  labour  with  a  sympathetic 

sigh. 

For  physical  exertion  he'll  most  carefully  evade 
When  noonday  sun  is  blazing  and  it's  Ninety  in  the 

Shade ! 

When  you  should  be  up  and  doing,  how  pleasant  'tis 

to  moon 

And  steadily  do  nothing  all  a  summer  afternoon, 
You  think  of  all  you  ought  to  do  and  leave  it  all 

undone 
And  fancy  you're  beginning  well,  though  nothing  is 

begun  I 


1 96  NINETY  IN  THE  SHADE 

How    dreamily  you  wonder  how  all    duties    are 

forgot, 
And  wonder  why  you  wonder,  when  the  weather  is 

so  hot ! 

But  as  you  muse  and  marvel  I  am  terribly  afraid 
You'll  give  your  mind  to  slumber  when  it's  Ninety 

in  the  Shade  ! 


197 


A   RHYME    IN   THE   RAIN 

In  Hurley  Lock — the  shower  fell  with  all  its  might 

and  main — 
A  maiden  in  a  mackintosh  sat  smiling  in  the  rain  ! 

MY  heart  was  light  and  whole  aboard — 
As  I  sculled  swift  by  Harleyford 

The  rain  began  to  patter — 
But  when  I  saw  in  Hurley  Lock 
That  Naiad  in  a  gingham  frock, 

'Twas  quite  another  matter  ! 
The  banks  are  soft  with  mud  and  slosh, 
And  shiny  is  each  mackintosh, 

Each  hat  and  coat  well  soaken  : 
My  spirits  droop,  and  as  I  scan 
That  Beauty  in  a  trim  randan, 

I  fear  my  heart  is  broken  ! 
She  hath  a  graceful  little  head, 
Her  lips  are  ripe  and  round  and  red, 

Her  teeth  are  short  and  pearly  ; 
And  on  a  rosy  sun-kist  cheek 
Her  dimples  play  at  hide-and-seek, 

Within  the  lock  at  Hurley  ! 


A   RHYME  IN  THE  RAIN 


I  strive  to  make  a  mental  note, 
The  while  she  lounges  in  her  boat 

Beneath  the  big  umbrella. 
I  wonder  if  she's  Gwendoline, 
Or  Millicent,  or  Geraldine, 

Or  Violet,  or  Stella  ? 
Is  she  engaged  to  Stroke  or  Bow  ? 
I  would  they  could  assure  me  now 

She  loves  to  flirt  with  others  ! 
Will  stalwart  Sculls  e'er  claim  her  hand  ? 
How  joyfully  I'd  understand 

Her  crew  are  only  brothers  ! 
Her  hat  with  lilies  is  bedight, 
Her  voice  is  low,  her  laugh  is  light, 

Her  figure  slight  and  girly. 
How  cheerfully  I'd  take  a  trip, 
With  such  a  pilot  for  my  ship, 

And  sail  away  from  Hurley  ! 


I  wonder  if  her  heart  is  true  ? 

I  know  her  eyes  are  peerless  blue, 

Long  lashes  downward  sweeping  ; 
A  snow-white  ruff  around  her  throat, 
Beneath  her  pouting  petticoat 

A  little  foot  out-peeping. 


199 


O,  is  she  wooed  and  is  she  won, 
Or  is  she  very  fond  of  fun  ? 

I  make  a  thousand  guesses  ! 
A  sweet  young  face,  so  full  of  hope, 
A  graceful  hand  on  rudder-rope, 

And  raindrops  in  her  tresses. 
Three  tiny  rose-buds  lightly  rest 
Within  the  haven  of  her  breast — 

Her  locks  are  short  and  curly. 
The  clouds  are  black  !    Fast  falls  the  rain 
I  leave  my  heart  cleft  well  in  twain 

Within  the  lock  at  Hurley  ! 


UINCONNUE 


L'INCONNUE 


As  I  watch  you  from  afar, 
How  I  wonder  who  you  are  ? 


FAR,  far  from  the  town, 
I  spied  drifting  down, 
Cheeks  ruddy  and  brown- 
Eyes  so  blue — 
A  sweet  sailor-girl, 
With  hair  all  a-curl — 
In  canoe 

She  dreams  in  her  boat, 
And  sweet  is  the  note 
That  white  little  throat 

Carols  through  : 
She  languidly  glides, 
And  skilfully  guides — 

Her  canoe. 


DINCONNUE 


'Neath  tremulous  trees, 
She  loiters  at  ease, 
And  I,  if  you  please, 

Wonder  who 
May  be  the  sweet  maid 
Who  moons  in  the  shade — 

Inconnue. 


Pray  tell  me  who  can, 
Is  she  Alice  or  Anne  ? 
Is  she  Florrie  or  Fan  ? 

Is  she  Loo  ? 
The  laziest  pet 
You  ever  saw  yet — 

In  canoe 


The  River's  like  glass — 
As  slowly  I  pass, 
This  merry  young  lass 

Raises  two 
Forget-me-not  eyes, 
In  laughing  surprise — 

From  canoe. 


L'INCONNUE 


And  as  she  floats  by, 
Said  I,  "  Miss,  O  why  ? 
O  why  may  not  I 

Drift  with  you  ?  " 
Said  she  with  a  start, 
"  I've  no  room  in  my  heart — 

Or  canoe  !  " 


SKIPPER  OF  THE  "  CHATTERBOX"      203 


THE   SKIPPER   OF   THE 
"CHATTERBOX" 


A  Skipper  who  is  smart  and  notable, 
Who'd  tow  the  world  if  it  were  floatable  I 


A  STIFFLY  built  craft  is  the  "  Chatterbox  " — 

Her  timbers  are  well  fendered  o'er — 
For  she  oft-times  gets  bumped  and  abraded 

From  Custom  House  Quay  to  the  Nore : 
Her  engines  are  ready  to  go  ahead, 

In  first-rate  condition  are  they ; 
When  orders  are  prompt  and  imperative, 

You'll  find  she  is  soon  under  weigh  ! 

CHORUS 

Sing'slide-valves  and  stop-cocks  and  cylinders 
And  pistons  and  packing  and  pumps ; 

Sing  couplings  and  cranks  and  condensers, 
Sing  boilers  and  bearings  and  bumps  ! 


204      SKIPPER   OF  THE   "CHATTERBOX^ 

You'll  see,  on  the  bridge,  that  the  Skipper  is — 

A  right  gallant  skipper  is  he — 
He's  wary  and  keeps  his  best  weather  eye 

As  open  as  open  can  be  ! 
He's  hearty  and  rugose  and  ruddy-faced, 

He's  merry  and  easy  and  free  ; 
He'll  tug  anything  that  is  tuggable 

Between  London  Bridge  and  the  sea ! 


CHORUS 

Sing  bollards  and  bobstays  and  binnacles 
And  chinckles  and  cringles  and  cranks  ; 

Sing  smoke-stacks  and  scuppers  and  stevedores, 
Sing  taffrails  and  tillers  and  tanks  ! 


He's  stalwart  and  sturdy  and  weatherproof 

And  knows  well  what  he  is  about ; 
With  hand  on  the  wheel  he  steers  warily 

And  always  is  on  the  look  out ! 
He  will  tug  a  long  string  of  dumb  barges, 

He'll  smoke  a  black  cutty  pipe  and 
He'll  tow  a  Dutch  schuyt  up  to  Billingsgate, 

Or  take  a  big  steamer  in  hand  ! 


SKIPPER   OF  THE  "CHATTERBOX"      205 


Sing  barges  and  bawleys  and  billyboys 

And  sponsons  and  sprockets  and  smacks  ; 

Sing  fiferails  and  futtocks  and  figureheads, 
Sing  timbers  and  toggles  and  tacks  ! 

You  may  see  him  perchance  at  Hole  Haven 

Or  find  him  off  Tilbury  Fort ; 
In  the  Pool  he  will  plough  up  the  waters, 

At  Lime'us  he'll  take  "  something  short  " 
Off  Erith,  or  Leigh,  or  Grays  Thurrock  is 

The  stout  "  Chatterbox  "  to  be  found  ; 
By  Greenwich,  or  Purfleet  or  Rosherville 

You'll  hear  her  deep  syren  resound  ! 


Sing  hawsers  and  halyards  and  hovellers 
And  gimbals  and  grommets  and  gear  ; 

Sing  lanyards  and  lumpers  and  lightermen, 
Sing  'baccy  and  brandy  and  beer  ! 


206  THE  FERRY  GIRL 


THE   FERRY   GIRL 


How  quick  the  moments  flew  away, 
Across  the  stream  that  summer  day  ! 


THE  way  was  long,  the  sun  was  high, 
The  Rhymer  was  fatigued  and  dry  ! 
From  Wargrave  he  came  walking  down, 
In  hope  to  soon  reach  Henley  town  ; 
And  at  the  "  Lion  "  find  repast, 
To  slake  his  thirst  and  break  his  fast. 
Alas  !  there's  neither  punt  nor  wherry 
To  take  him  over  Bolney  Ferry  ! 

He  gazes  to  the  left  and  right — 
No  craft  is  anywhere  in  sight, 
Except  the  horse-boat  he  espied 
Secure  upon  the  other  side  ; 
No  skiff  he  finds  to  stem  the  swirl, 
No  ferryman,  nor  boy,  nor  girl  1 
And  though  it  is  annoying  very, 
He  can't  get  over  Bolney  Ferry  ! 


THE  FERRY  GIRL  207 

No  ferry-girl  ?    Indeed  I'm  wrong, 

For  she — the  subject  of  my  song — 

So  dainty,  dimpled,  young,  and  fair, 

Is  coolly  sketching  over  there. 

She  gazes,  stops,  then  seems  to  guess 

The  cause  of  signals  of  distress. 

A  brindled  bull-dog  she  calls  "  Jerry  " 
Comes  with  her  over  Bolney  Ferry  ! 

She  pulls,  and  then  she  pulls  again, 
With  dainty  hands,  the  rusty  chain  ; 
She  smiles,  and,  with  a  softened  frown, 
She  bids  her  faithful  dog  lie  down. 
As  she  approaches  near  the  shore 
She  shows  her  dimples  more  and  more, 
Her  short  white  teeth,  lips  like  a  cherry 
Unpouting  show,  at  Bolney  Ferry  ! 

With  joy  he  steps  aboard  the  boat, 

The  Rhymer's  rescued  and  afloat ! 

She  chirps  and  chatters,  and  the  twain 

Together  pull  the  rusty  chain  ; 

He  sighs  to  think  each  quaint  clink-clank 

But  brings  him  nearer  to  the  bank  ! 
His  heart  is  sad,  her  laugh  is  merry, 
And  so  they  part  at  Bolney  Ferry  ! 


208  THE  FERRY  GIRL 

The  Singer  sitting  down  to  dine 
To  retrospection  doth  incline  ; 
"  A  faultless  figure,  lustrous  eyes 
As  sweet  as  early  summer  skies  ! 
What  pretty  hands,  what  subtle  grace, 
And  what  a  winsome  little  face  !  " 
Then  in  the  "  Lion's  "  driest  sherry 
He  toasts  the  Lass  of  Bolney  Ferry  I 


A   LAZY  LAY  209 


A  LAZY  LAY 


A II  those  who  make  a  toil  of  pleasure 
Have  small  regard  for  others'  leisure  ! 


Tis  pleasant,  'tis  true,  from  punt  or  canoe 

To  gaze  on  the  prospect  enthralling  : 
To  paddle  around,  where  friends  may  be  found- 

At  houseboat  or  launch  to  be  calling  ! 
I  love  the  fresh  air,  the  lunch  here  and  there. 

To  see  pretty  toilettes  and  faces  ; 
But  one  thing  I  hate — allow  me  to  state — 
The  fuss  they  make  over  the  Races  !       _ 
I  don't  care  a  rap  for  the  Races  ! — 
'Mid  all  the  Regatta  embraces — 
I'm  that  sort  of  chap,  I  don't  care  a  rap, 
A  rap  or  a  snap  for  the  Races  ! 

I  don't  care,  you  know,  a  bit  how  they  row, 
Nor  mind  about  smartness  of  feather  ; 

If  steering  is  bad,  I'm  not  at  all  sad, 
Nor  care  if  they  don't  swing  together  ! 


A   LAZY  LAY 


O,  why  do  they  shout  and  make  such  a  rout, 
When  one  boat  another  one  chases  ? 

"Tis  really  too  hot  to  bawl — is  it  not  ? — 
Or  bore  oneself  over  the  Races  ! 
I  don't  care  a  rap,  etc. 

Then  the  Umpire's  boat  a  nuisance  we  vote, 

It  interrupts  calm  contemplation  ; 
Its  discordant  tone  and  hideous  moan 

Is  death  to  serene  meditation  ! 
The  roar  of  the  crowd  should  not  be  allowed  ; 

The  gun  with  its  fierce  fulmination, 
Abolish  it,  pray — 'tis  fatal  they  say, 

To  pleasant  and  quiet  flirtation  ! 
I  don't  care  a  rap,  etc. 

If  athletes  must  show  their  muscle,  I  trow 

They  should  have  some  other  employment ; 
And  let  it  be  clear,  they  don't  interfere 

With  other  folks'  quiet  enjoyment ! 
When  luncheon  you're  o'er,  'tis  really  a  bore- 

And  I  think  it  a  very  hard  case  is — 
To  have  to  look  up,  from  a  pdtt  or  cup, 

To  gaze  on  those  tiresome  Races  ! 
I  don't  care  a  rap,  etc. 


A   LAZY  LAY  211 


The  Races,  to  me,  seem  to  strike  a  wrong  key 

'Mid  dreamy  delightful  diversion  ; 
There  isn't  much  fun  when  men  in  the  sun 

All  suffer  from  over-exertion  ! 
In  sweet  idle  days,  when  all  love  to  laze, 

Such  violent  work  a  disgrace  is  ! 
Let's  hope  we  shall  see,  they  all  will  agree 

To  next  year  abolish  the  Races  ! 
I  don't  care  a  rap,  etc. 


DOWN  LIMEHOUSE    WAY 


DOWN   LIMEHOUSE   WAY 

Where  gleams  the  vane  of  Hawksmoor's  fane, 

A  nd  where  its  shadows  fall, 
May  be  descried  by  Riverside, 

What  natives  Lime'us  call  ! 

THIS  quaint  foreshore  is  crowded  o'er 

With  buildings  most  grotesque — 
Shy  thoroughfares  and  slimy  stairs 

And  causeways  picturesque ; 
One  here  regards  the  noisy  yards, 

Where  busy  workmen  throng, 
Who  scatter  chips,  in  building  ships 

And  hammer  all  day  long  ! 
They  clatter  and  bang  through  the  day, 
And  great  perseverance  display  ! 
A  clinking  and  clanking — 
A  tinking  and  tanking 
Will  haunt  you  down  Lime'us  way  ! 

Around  are  docks,  canals  and  locks, 
And  stores  of  jute  and  grain  ; 


213 


You'll  note,  I  think,  the  windlass  clink, 
Likewise  the  whirr  of  crane. 

Here  wharves  you'll  find  of  ev'ry  kind- 
Where  lumpers  puff  and  blow — 

And  scum  and  logs,  dead  cats  and  dogs 
With  mud — when  tide  is  low  : 

While,  if  you  stroll  further,  you  may 

Find  vendors  of  straw  and  of  hay, 
With  'baccy  and  beershops — 
And  all  kinds  of  queer  shops 

In  plenty  down  Lime'us  way  ! 


Here  longshoremen,  and,  now  and  then, 

A  pilot  you  may  meet ; 
And  bowsprits  seen,  oft  are,  I  ween, 

Above  the  narrow  street. 
You'll  find  odd  shops,  for  shoes  and  slops, 

And  makers  deft  of  sails  ; 
With  shipping  stores  and  stevedores 

And  vendors  of  fine  ales. 
And  stalls,  where  dried  fish  they  purvey — 
With  lodgings  where  mariners  stay — 
For  haddocks  and  kippers, 
And  sailors  and  skippers, 
All  flourish  down  Lime'us  way  ! 


214  DOWN  LIMEHOUSE   WAY 

If  you  are  ripe  to  "hit  the  pipe," 

A  "  hop- joint  "  may  be  found  ; 
'Mid  alleys  grim  and  chambers  dim 

Where  Chinamen  abound  ! 
Here  in  the  gloom  of  sombre  room, 

On  couch  you  may  repose, 
And  watch  with  sighs,  blue  vapours  rise 

When  lost  in  dreamy  doze. 

Then,  lured  by  narcotical  fay, 

Your  intellect  goes  all  astray, 

And  sets  your  brain  whirling 

With  all  senses  twirling — 

A-tangle  down  Lime'us  way  ! 

Close  by  I  mind  an  inn  you'll  find, 

Where  you  will  not  refuse 
To  rest  a  bit,  as  there  you  sit, 

And  gaze  on  River  views — 
'Tis  very  old,  with  window  bold, 

That  bulges  o'er  the  tide  ; 
Whence  you  can  spy  ships  passing  by 

Or  watch  the  waters  glide  ! 
You  sit  in  the  red-curtained  bay 
And  think,  while  you're  puffing  a  clay, 
'Tis  no  indecorum 
To  drink  sangarorum — 
While  musing  down  Lime'us  way  ! 


DO WN  LIMEHO USE    WAY  215 

It  would  appear  Sam  Pepys  was  here — 

A  many  years  ago  ; 
When  "  mighty  fine  "  he  came  to  dine 

With  Captain  Marshe,  you  know. 
'Twas  here  he  met  George  Carteret, 

Likewise  Sir  William  Penn ; 
And  here  they  quaffed  and  gaily  laughed 

With  other  naval  men  ! 
It  seems  pretty  certain  that  they, 
Between  them  had  plenty  to  say, 
Which  Sammy  was  booking — 
When  no  one  was  looking — 
While  dining  down  Lime'us  way  ! 

You'll  find  this  spot — now  does  it  not  ? — 

Recalls  and  keeps  alive 
The  varied  crew  Charles  Dickens  drew 

In  Eighteen  Sixty-five. 
Here  Hexam  plied  his  trade  and  died 

And  Riderhood  conspired  ; 
While  things  they'd  pop  at  Pleasant's  shop, 

When  cash  might  be  required  ! 
Here,  under  Miss  Abbey's  firm  sway, 
Who  made  all  her  clients  obey, 
Was,  ruled  with  discretion 
And  rare  self-possession, 
The  "  Porters  "  down  Lime'us  way  ! 


216  DOWN  LIMEHOUSE   WAY 

While  smoking  still  you'll  find  there  will 
Strange  fancies  haunt  your  rhymes  ; 

And  quickly  raise  'mid  azure  haze 
The  ghosts  of  bygone  times  ! 

Thus,  through  the  smoke,  loom  hearts  of  oak- 
Brave  men  before  the  mast — 

Who  fought  the  foe  and  fought  also 
The  press-gangs  of  the  past ! 

A  stalwart  throng  worth  Dibdin's  song, 
Who  ever  had  their  fling  ; 

Who  loved  a  lass,  likewise  a  glass, 
Their  country  and  their  King. 

But  tug-boats  steam,  'mid  grime  and  gleam, 
And  syrens  hoarsely  blow ; 

Which  brings  one  back,  in  half  a  crack, 
From  dreams  of  long  ago  ! 

The  River  is  silvery  grey, 

With  sparkles  of  glittering  spray — 
But  all  now  is  hustle, 
And  clatter  and  bustle, 

And  hurry  down  Lime'us  way  ! 


THE   CHEETAH  217 


THE   CHEETAH 


Upon  the  landing-stage  you'll  note 
The  Cheetah  waiting  for  her  boat. 


SHE'S  called  the  "  Cheetah,"  I  surmise, 
Because  she  has  such  big  brown  eyes, 
So  bright,  so  fathomless — I  ween 
No  sweeter  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! 
So  full  of  love  and  trust,  although, 
They  can  with  indignation  glow  : 
And  all  her  feelings,  I  confess, 
Quite  unconcealed  they  will  express. 
Her  inmost  thoughts  she  can't  disguise, 
You  read  them  in  those  tell-tale  eyes ! 

Her  age  is  Twelve — half  bold,  half  coy- 
With  all  the  vigour  of  a  boy. 
But  boyish  boldness,  you  may  trace, 
Is  chastened  by  a  giiiful  grace. 
Though  full  of  fun  and  life  combined 
She's  all  that's  gentle  and  refined  : 


218  THE   CHEETAH 

She's  dainty,  trustful,  debonair — 
With  close-cropped,  curly,  sunlit  hair. 
The  pushed  back  "straw"  you'll  notice  too, 
And  jersey  trim  of  Navy  blue. 


Her  short  serge  frock  distinctly  shows 
Well-shapen  legs  in  sable  hose  ; 
Likewise  a  pair  of  restless  feet, 
In  tawny  leather,  wondrous  neat. 
While,  as  she  swings  her  skirt,  you  will 
Out-peeping  see  a  snowy  frill ; 
With  symphonies  in  needlework, 
Where  dimpled  pearly  shadows  lurk. 
A  sunburnt  Water-Baby  she, 
Charles  Kingsley  would  have  loved  to  see ! 


She,  in  the  present,  seems  to  be 
So  full  of  gladsome,  childish  glee — 
It  seems  a  pity — does  it  not  ? — 
That  "growing-up  "  should  be  her  lot: 
With  all  its  troubles,  care  and  strife, 
To  dissipate  her  dream  of  life  ! 
At  home  in  dinghy  or  canoe, 
Her  sculling  is  a  joy  to  view  : 


THE   CHEETAH  219 

Familiar  with  all  kinds  of  boats, 

She  headers  takes  and  swims  and  floats ; 

The  lithest  lass  you  e'er  could  see 

In  all  Short-petticoaterie ! — 

But  here's  her  boat.     She  says  "  Good  day !  " 

And  with  a  smile  she  sculls  away ! 


THE  FIRST  WEIR 


THE   FIRST   WEIR 

When  husht  is  the  music  of  leaves, 
When  silent  the  caw  of  the  rook, 

'Tis  then  that  one  faintly  perceives 
The  song  of  the  babbling  brook  ! 

DOWN  in  the  meadow,  gloriously  green, 
Where  long  lush  grass  luxuriantly  waves  ; 
As  chasing  cloudlets  swiftly  change  its  hue 
From  chrome  to  sage,  from  sage  to  chrome  again. 
Where  all  is  silent,  save  the  sighing  elms — 
Which  cast  a  grateful  shadow  on  the  bank — 
Whose  gnarled  and  twisted  roots  are  bare  and  worn 
And  bleached  by  winter  flood  and  summer  sun ; 
Whose  graceful,  spreading  branches,  drooping  low, 
And  sunlit  leaves  are  mirrored  in  the  brook  ; 
While  sparkles  of  blue  sky  and  gleaming  light 
Adorn  each  dimpled  ripple  of  the  stream  ! 

'Tis  here  I  sit  and  sketch  in  chequered  shade 
The  rugged  water-bar,  so  picturesque  : 
The  very  first  of  all  the  countless  weirs 
That  serve  to  keep  old  Father  Thames  in  check, 


THE  FIRST  WEIR  221 

To  soothe  and  guide  him  in  his  wayward  course, 

As  eagerly  he  races  to  the  sea  ! 

Our  baby  weir  is  modest  in  its  guise  : 

It  boasts  no  massive  beams  nor  chamfered  posts, 

No  rusty  rivets,  no  corroded  clamps, 

No  apron,  sluice  nor  rymer  does  it  own. 

No  cobbler  gaunt  to  mark  the  proper  course, 

No  danger-board  to  warn  the  careless  oar, 

No  lasher  lashes  forth  a  seething  flood, 

No  roar  resoundeth  from  its  tumbling  bay — 

Indeed  there's  nothing  thrilling  to  be  found 

About  this  simple,  mossy,  tiny  weir  ! 

Observe  the  fissured  weather-beaten  pine 
That  strives  to  bar  the  stream  from  bank  to  bank  ; 
With  all  the  nettles,  docks  and  tangled  grass 
That  half  obscure  its  stern  resolve  from  view. 
I  pray  you  note  the  shattered,  stream- worn  stones 
Bedecked  with  lichen,  yellow,  brown  and  grey. 
With   countless  rifts   and   crannies,    where   you'll 

find 
Green    mosses    lurk    and   wind-sown   seeds    take 

root : 
While   nestling  'neath  the  nodding  weeds    you'll 

see 
Forget-me-nots  reflect  the  summer  skies  ! 


THE   FIRST   WEIR 


'Tis  passing  sweet  this  lovely  sunny  day 
To  sit  and  view  the  silver-threaded  fall 
That  gently  overflows  the  red-barked  pine, 
To  splash  and  glitter,  'mid  the  old  grey  stones  ! 
'Tis  good  to  listen  to  the  laughing  song 
Of  rhythmic  ripples  as  they  pass  away  : 
To  watch  a  leaf  or  feather  madly  whirl 
O'er  fretted  water,  gleaming  in  the  light  ! 
To  see  it  struggle  'mid  the  bending  blades, 
O'er  pebbled  shallows  and  the  waving  weeds, 
Or  find  it  wrecked  on  starry  crowfoot  isles, 
'Mid  silver  sparkle  with  a  golden  glint ! 
Sweet  is  the  silence,  balmy  is  the  breeze, 
Grateful  the  shade  is,  glorious  the  rest ! 

But  stay  !    I  hear  the  joyous  bark  of  dog  ; 
Likewise  a  lass's  laugh  that  mingles  with 
The  fitful  flutter  of  the  lazy  leaves 
And  tiny  trickle  of  the  feeble  fall. 
Then  quickly  conies  a  collie  bounding  on — 
He's  black  and  tan  with  ample  blaze  of  white — 
With  tail  erect  and  panting,  open-mouthed, 
Whines  for  his  little  mistress  to  come  on. 
Then,  barking  at  his  shadow  in  the  stream, 
Takes  grateful  draughts  to  cool  his  ruddy  tongue 
She  soon  appears,  with  streaming  chesnut  hair, 


THE   FIRST  WEIR  223 

And  petticoats  a-flutter  with  the  chase  ! 

With  merry  song  she  lingers  at  the  weir 

And  gazes  on  her  image  in  the  pool ; 

Then  twines  the  turquoise  ribbon  in  her  locks 

Puts  straight  her  hat  and  smooths  her  ruffled  skirts. 

Upon  the  Weir,  this  child  you  see, 
Whose  dimpled  cheeks  are  full  of  glee, 

By  tears  unfretted  : 
Her  tawny  hair  and  big  blue  eyes 
Will  ne'er,  I  venture  to  surmise, 

Remain  unpetted  ! 

A  dancing  maid — who  comes  and  goes — 
Whose  swinging  skirt  distinctly  shows 
The  silken  sheen  of  sable  hose 

And  shoes  resetted  ! 

She  likes  the  open  air  and  sun 
And,  being  very  fond  of  fun, 

Deems  wisdom  folly  ! 
Not  caring  much  for  lesson-books, 
Thinks  study  of  the  running  brooks 

Is  far  more  jolly  : 
Up  apple-trees  she'll  often  climb, 
Or  sweetly  sing  some  silly  rhyme  : 
She'll  laugh  all  through  the  summer-time — 

And  love  her  collie  ! 


224  THE  FIRST  WEIR 

Upon  her  pony,  oft  this  lass, 
Delights  to  scamper  o'er  the  grass— 

Short-frocked  and  frillful ; 
A  tiny  bit  of  womankind, 
Who,  like  a  woman,  you  will  find 

Is  sometimes  wilful  1 
But  knows  full  well  what  she's  about, 
In  conquering  by  smile  or  pout, 
Or  winsome  wile,  she  is  no  doubt 

Supremely  skilful ! 

O'er  grim  grey  stones  she  bends  with  wondrous 

grace, 

And  deftly  culls  the  sweet  forget-me-nots  ; 
Which  rival,  for  a  time,  her  merry  eyes 
And  shame  the  turquoise  ribbon  in  her  hair — 
With  joyous  yelp  the  collie  bounds  along 
With  merry  song  the  maiden  trips  away  ! 

Ah  !  had  I  but  the  pencil  that  Millais 
So  deftly  plied  in  his  "  Ophelia  "  days, 
I'd  borrow  all  his  subtlety  and  skill 
To  limn  the  beauty  of  our  tiny  weir  ; 
And  use  the  magic  of  his  matchless  art 
To  make  the  maiden  live  upon  the  page  ! 


A    CASUAL   CRUISE  225 


A   CASUAL  CRUISE 


My  Pegasus  won't  bear  a  bridle, 
A  bit,  or  a  saddle,  or  shoe  ; 

I'm  doing  my  best  to  be  idle, 

And  sing  from  my  bass-wood  canoe  ! 


O,  SUMMER  is  sweet,  and  its  sky  is  so  blue, 
The  time  passes  quickly — my  heart  is  so  light, 

When  drifting  about  in  my  bass-wood  canoe  ! 

Where  am  I  ?     No  matter  !     It's  nothing  to  you- 
The  breezes  are  pleasant,  the  sunshine  is  bright. 

O,  Summer  is  sweet,  and  its  sky  is  so  blue  ! 

I  glory  in  thinking  there's  nothing  to  do. 

I  moon  and  I  ponder  from  morn  until  night, 
When  lazily  paddling  my  bass-wood  canoe  ! 
My  face  and  my  hands  are  of  tropical  hue, 

In  spotless  white  flannel  I'm  coolly  bedight. 
O,  Summer  is  sweet,  and  its  sky  is  so  blue  ! 
Q 


226  A    CASUAL    CRUISE 

But  O,  it  is  pleasant  to  dream  the  day  through, 
Half  hidden  by  rushes,  and  well  out  of  sight, 

When  dreaming  of  naught  in  my  bass-wood  canoe  ! 

You  think  I  am  lazy  ?    "Tis  perfectly  true  ! 

I  dream  to  the  song  of  the  dragon-flies'  flight — 

O,  Summer  is  sweet,  and  its  sky  is  so  blue  ! 

Somewhere  on  the  Thames,  I  can't  give  you  a  clue, 
Be  able  to  find  me,  you  possibly  might. 

When  lazing  at  ease  in  my  bass-wood  canoe  ! 

And  if  you  are  pleasant  and  I'm  in  the  cue, 

Through  azurine  smoke  you  may  hear  me  recite, 

O,  Summer  is  sweet,  and  its  sky  is  so  blue  ! 


THE  LAST   WEIR  227 


THE    LAST   WEIR 


The  waters  are  glad  !   How  they  foam,  flash  and  roll ! 
Now  at  last  they  are  free  of  all  "  weiry  "  control  ! 


TEDDINGTON  WEIR  doesn't  need  an  apologist, 
Being  the  work  of  a  clever  tidologist, 
Graced  by  the  art  of  a  skilled  potamologist — 

A  willow  weeps  over  the  tumbling  bay  ! 
This,  the  last  weir,  is  distinctly  imperial, 
Ruling  the  River  with  tact  magisterial — 
Iron  and  stone  form  its  doughty  material — 
Countless  stout  rymers  dispute  right  of  way  ! 
The  River  is  splashing, 
And  dancing  and  dashing, 
And  fitfully  flashing, 

Throughout  the  whole  year  : 
The  rapids  are  racing 
The  bubbles  and  chasing, 
With  quaint  interlacing 
At  Teddington  Weir  ! 


228  THE  LAST   WEIR 

Here  it  is  soothing  to  watch  currents  whirl  about, 
Eddy  and  seethe  as  they  gleefully  curl  about, 
Glitter  and  froth  as  they  merrily  swirl  about — 

Rainbows  are  playfully  haunting  the  spray  ! 
Over  the  tideway  the  swallows  are  skimmering, 
Wavelets,  in  sunshine,  are  glancing  and  glimmering, 
White-crested  billows  are  tossing  and  shimmering, 
Changing  each  moment,  they  hasten  away  ! 
The  River  is  tripping, 
And  sparkling  and  skipping, 
And  o'er  the  steps  slipping, 

To  soon  disappear : 
The  stream  freely  gushing, 
The  lasher  well  flushing, 
And  right  onward  rushing 
.         From  Teddington  Weir  ! 

Onward  the  stream  flows — no  pause  in  its  hurry- 
ing— 

Paddles  and  posts  ever  flouting  and  flurrying, 
Over  the  apron  'tis  speedily  scurrying, 

Frolicsome,  frisky  and  foaming  and  free : 
On  it  comes,  on,  with  a  swing  and  a  spattering, 
Fleeting  and  meeting  and  parting  and  pattering, 
Twisting  and  turning  and  cleaving  and  chattering — 

Steadily  making  its  way  to  the  sea  ! 


THE  LAST  WEIR  229 

The  River  is  surging 

And  sobbing  and  splurging, 

Right  earnestly  urging, 

Its  onward  career : 
The  billows  are  creaming, 
And  gleefully  gleaming 
Incessantly  streaming 

Through  Teddington  Weir  ! 

List  to  the  weir-song,  as  glad  waters  glide  away, 

Silver  and  celadon  rapidly  slide  away, 

Fretted  with  foam — how  they  gracefully  ride  away, 

Into  the  sunshine  delightfully  bright. 
Wondrous  the  music,  so  quaint  and  mysterious, 
Now  it  is  joyful  and  now  it  is  serious, 
Sweet  is  the  melody,  ne'er  will  it  weary  us — 
Ceaseless  the  song  is  from  morn  until  night ! 
The  River  is  singing, 
The  ripples  are  ringing, 
While  bright  spherules  flinging, 

Refreshingly  clear : 
The  foam-rings  are  curling 
In  patterns  and  twirling, 
Eternally  purling 

Through  Teddington  Weir  ! 


230  SOU7HWARK  BRIDGE 


SOUTHWARK  BRIDGE 


Smoke  and  sunshine,  grime  and  gleam, 
Boats  and  barges,  mist  and  steam, 
Golden  glitter  on  the  stream  ! 


'TWAS  on  a  fine  November  day 
I  through  the  City  took  my  way, 
Amid  the  clatter  and  the  noise 
Of  motor-hoot  and  yelling  boys  : 
Then,  wearied  out,  I  beat  retreat 
From  all  the  din  of  Cannon  Street, 
And  found  a  spot  to  muse  and  moon — 
This  bright  and  breezy  afternoon — 
On  Southwark  Bridge  ! 

When  leaning  on  the  balustrade, 
I  see  Bankside  disguised  in  shade  ; 
Queer  roofs,  odd  gables,  cutting  clear 
Against  the  frosty  atmosphere, 


SOUTHWARK  BRIDGE  231 

And  chimneys  of  prodigious  height 
Whose  smoke  drifts  o'er  the  yellow  light : 
The  squeal  of  pulley,  clank  of  chain, 
I  clearly  hear,  with  whirr  of  crane, 
At  Southwark  Bridge. 

Then  gazing  up  Blackfriars  way 
You  note  the  distance  veiled  in  grey, 
Save  here  and  there  a  silver  gleam 
Where  sable  barges  stem  the  stream. 
And  round  about  the  sea-gulls  fly, 
They  ride  the  ripples,  soar  on  high, 
They  ceaselessly  flap  to  and  fro 
And  in  the  sunshine  come  and  go — 
O'er  Southwark  Bridge. 

This  was,  you  possibly  may  know, 
The  Iron  Bridge  of  long  ago  ; 
With  penny  toll,  which  I  suspect, 
Made  it  both  quiet  and  select. 
Here  Garlick  Hill  found  sweet  repose 
And  Walbrook  half  forgot  its  woes  ; 
The  Borough  sought  relief  from  care 
And  Lant  Street  came  for  change  of  air — 
To  Southwark  Bridge. 


232  SOUTHWARK  BRIDGE 

Here,  from  the  hopeless  Marshalsea, 
They  came  in  Eighteen-twenty-three  ; 
Came  Arthur  Clennam,  staunch  and  true, 
With  Maggie  and  old  Nandy  too  : 
Here  Little  Dorrit  stopped  to  dream, 
To  watch  the  sunset  and  the  stream, 
And  strove  her  troubles  to  forget 
When  gazing  from  the  parapet — 
Of  Southwark  Bridge. 

Here  came  Young  John,  superbly  drest 
In  purple  coat  and  gold-sprigged  vest 
With  white  kid  gloves  and  dandy  cane- 
Alas  !  his  toilet  was  in  vain  ! 
Miss  A  my  kindly  said  him  nay, 
Then  tearfully  he  went  away  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  fragile  staff, 
He  then  composed  his  epitaph 
On  Southwark  Bridge  ! 

Now  in  the  west  the  sky's  aglow, 
The  sun  in  splendour  sinking  low  ; 
It  glitters  on  the  warehouse  pane 
And  gleams  on  Saint  Augustine's  vane. 
The  naming  orb  now  slowly  falls, 
And  gives  a  glory  to  Saint  Paul's  ! 


SOUTHWARK  BRIDGE  233 

As  lazy  barges  upward  glide, 
'Mid  orange  sparkles,  on  the  tide — 
From  Southwark  Bridge  ! 

The  glow  soon  fades  and  by-and-by 
The  mist  wreathes  up  and  veils  the  sky  ; 
A  tug  down  panting  may  be  seen, 
With  lanterns  bright  of  red  and  green  : 
Lights  sparkle  forth  on  wharf  and  pier, 
The  twilight  deepens — night  is  near  ! 
As  chilly  winds  begin  to  blow, 
We  feel  that  it  is  time  to  go — 

From  Southwark  Bridge  ! 


234  THE   TWILIGHT  SONATA 


THE   TWILIGHT  SONATA 


All !  what  dreams  may  be  dreamed  in  the  twilight, 
Where  visions  lurk  varied  and  bright  ! 

In  the  exquisite  mythical  shy  light — 
The  prelude  to  still  summer  night  ! 


THE  tall-cased  clock  has  struck  the  hour  of  Nine 
The  day  has  been  superlatively  fine  ! 
But  now  we  find  sweet  twilight  drawing  nigh 
And  clear  and  peaceful  is  the  sea-green  sky  : 
The  leaves  scarce  tremble  in  the  waning  light, 
Calm  is  the  evening,  waiting  on  the  night. 
This  rare,  old-fashioned,  comfortable  room, 
With  roses  redolent,  is  wrapped  in  gloom  ; 
While  through  the  tall  French  windows  opened  wide, 
Beyond  the  lawn,  we  see  the  river  glide  : 
The  plash  of  lazy  oar  we  clearly  note 
With  merry  voices  in  the  passing  boat  ; 
As  white-clad  lasses,  tripping  to  and  fro, 
About  the  garden,  laughing,  come  and  go. 


THE    TWILIGHT  SONATA  235 

Sweet  is  the  scent  of  hay  and  fragrant  lime 
And  quaint  the  clangour  of  the  village  chime 
As  in  an  easy  chair  we  muse  and  laze — 
While  Ruby  plays  ! 


The  square  piano  of  the  olden  time, 
We  try  to  picture  in  a  fleeting  rhyme  ; 
Though  sneered  at  now,  as  quite  a  bygone  thing, 
'Twas  greatly  prized  when  George  the  Fourth  was 

King. 

Its  case  is  finely  wrought,  as  you  may  see, 
Of  solid,  deeply  toned  mahogany  ; 
Which  value  gains,  pray  notice  by  the  way, 
From  narrow  bands  of  ebony  inlay  : 
And  Time,  it  here  may  clearly  be  discerned, 
The  ornate  brasswork  to  dull  bronze  has  turned. 
E'en  on  the  satin-wood  of  tawny  tone, 
The  maker's  name  illegible  has  grown  ; 
Though  'mid  the  faded  flourishes  you'll  see 
That  he  was  "  Maker  to  His  Majesty." 
The  keys  are  yellow  now,  and  it  appears, 
Are  concave  worn  by  fingering  of  years  ; 
But  how  their  touch  sweet  melody  conveys — 
When  Ruby  plays  ! 


236  THE    TWILIGHT  SONATA 

This  ancient  instrument  you'll  find,  forsooth, 
Knew  quite  another  world  in  early  youth  ! 
A  world  that  loved  the  stately  Almack's  ball, 
Also  the  merry  supper  at  Vauxhall ; 
Likewise  sedans,  stage-coaches  and  po'chays, 
And  drinking  bouts  and  duelling  affrays  : 
With  tandem-driving  and  the  prize-ring  fights, 
High    play    at    Crockford's,    Brooks's,     Boodle's, 

White's  ! 

O  wondrous  bonnets  and  short-waisted  frocks, 
And  curly  hat-brims  with  tight-buckled  stocks  ! 
O  beauties  Lawrence  loved  to  re-create, 
And  bucks  that  Cruikshank  strove  to  illustrate  ! 
Ah  !   what  a  troop  of  Georgian  ghosts  we  raise — 
While  Ruby  plays  ! 

At  the  piano,  in  the  fading  light, 
Behold  the  graceful  damsel  robed  in  white  ! 
With  turquoise-tinted  ribbons  and  you'll  note 
The  pale  pink  coral  beads  about  her  throat. 
As  in  the  convex  mirror  you  may  trace 
Reflection  of  a  sweet  and  child-like  face, 
And  deep  grey  eyes  with  lashes  drooping  down, 
With  smiles  that  supersede  a  softened  frown — 
When  some  chance  discord  has  the  luck  to  be 
Extinguished  in  delightful  harmony  ! 


THE    TWILIGHT  SONATA  237 

As  dimpled  fingers  wander  o'er  the  keys, 
Each  note  caressing  with  proficient  ease, 
The  taste  and  touch  are  quite  beyond  all  praise — 
When  Ruby  plays  ! 

A  half-forgotten  rhyme  of  nursery  lore, 
Some  piquant  passages  from  "  Pinafore  "  ; 
A  lively  polka  that  we  used  to  know, 
A  waltz  that  echo  wakes  of  long  ago — 
These  all  look  in  with  tantalizing  freak 
And  play,  'mid  sharps  and  flats,  at  hide-and-seek.   . 
Now  comes  a  light  bolero  lightly  played, 
And  then  a  hint  of  Dibdin  is  essayed  ; 
While  blithe  Constanzo  Festa  trips  along, 
Soon  followed  by  the  latest  London  song, 
So  lightly  touched,  so  deftly  harmonized, 
That  all  its  poverty  is  well  disguised  ! 
A  rare  pot-pourri,  dainty  and  diffuse, 
These  varied,  musical  dissolving  views  ! 
All  rendered  with  felicity  of  phrase — 

When  Ruby  plays  ! 

Then,  as  the  evening  zephyr  softly  sighs, 
More  solemn  fancies  will  she  improvise. 
And,  O  !  what  inspiration  she  receives 
From  lightsome  lyrics  of  the  laughing  leaves  ! 


238  THE    TWILIGHT  SONATA 

What  hints  from  tender  twilight  cool  and  clear, 
What  fine  motivo  from  the  wailing  weir  1 
Anon  she  gives  a  half-sad  symphony — 
A  plaintive  pleading  in  a  minor  key  ; 
Faint  whispers  o'er  the  key-board  gently  steal, 
As  if  they  had  some  secret  to  reveal ; 
Or  possibly  some  mission  to  promote, 
So  trip  confidingly  from  note  to  note, 
With  haunting  memories  of  bygone  days — 
As  Ruby  plays  ! 

Thrilling  the  air  is,  though  so  soft  and  low, 
As  subtle  modulations  come  and  go. 
You  lose  it  sometimes,  when  the  fluttered  trees 
Half  simulate  the  sound  of  summer  seas. 
Or  when  the  balmy  breeze,  perchance,  brings  near 
The  solemn,  muffled  roar  of  distant  weir  ! 
Ah  !  now  'tis  gone,  then  seems  inclined  to  stay, 
One  instant  near,  the  next  far,  far  away  ; 
One  moment  sad,  the  next  'tis  full  of  glee — 
A  sweet  elusive,  charming  melody  ! 
So  choice,  so  fascinating,  'twould  beseem 
The  twilight  poem  of  a  twilight  dream  ! 
The  gloaming  deepens,  for  the  night  is  nigh, 
And  stars  now  feebly  glimmer  in  the  sky. 


THE   TWILIGHT  SONATA  239 

Faint  is  the  harmony  that  interweaves 
The  languid  lullaby  of  lazy  leaves  ! 
Fainter  the  music  grows  and  fades  away 
Within  a  dreamy  dirge  of  dying  day  ! 
The  coda's  lost,  'mid  laughter  on  the  lawn, 
And — Ruby's  gone  ! 


24o  AT  THE  NO  RE 


AT   THE   NORE 

Good-bye  to  the  Thames  !    Here  its  mission  is  o'er  ! 
Good-bye  to  the  Thames  !    O  good-bye  at  the  Nore  I 

O,  IF  in  the  bright  summer  weather, 
You  sigh  for  a  real  change  of  air ; 
If  London  you'd  quit  altogether 

And  banish  all  trouble  and  care — 
I  pray  you  embark  on  the  tight  ship, 
Which  tosses  some  miles  from  the  shore  : 
That  rubicund  Light-ship, 
You'll  find  is  the  right  ship, 
Where  life  is  no  longer  a  bore  ! 
There  you  may  stay, 
All  through  the  day  ; 
To  lounge  at  your  ease 
And  do  just  as  you  please — 
With  mighty  content  at  the  Nore  ! 

One  early  retires,  so  can  one  rise 

In  time  to,  astonished,  behold 
The  splendour  and  charm  of  the  sunrise, 

In  glory  of  roses  and  gold  ! 


AT  THE  NO  RE  241 

As  waters,  at  daybreak,  are  dashing 
And  sea-gulls  beginning  to  soar ; 
While  white  crests  are  flashing 
In  sunshine  and  splashing, 
To  dance  to  a  musical  chore ! 
O,  it  is  joy, 
Free  from  alloy ! 
To  live  a  new  life, 
Without  worry  and  strife, 
And  taint  of  the  time  at  the  Nore  1 


You'll  find  it  a  new  kind  of  sea-side, 

You  bathe  there  without  a  machine ; 
And  headers  take  over  the  lee  side 

In  waters  pellucid  and  green  ! 
For  here  you're  not  bored  by  street  squallers, 
No  shrimp-sellers  come  to  your  door ; 
No  newspaper-bawlers, 
No  fiendish  fish-callers, 
No  brass  bands  to  bellow  and  roar  1 
No  postman's  knock 
Gives  you  a  shock ; 
You  sit  in  the  sun, 
Getting  brown  as  a  bun — 
No  telegrams  come  to  the  Nore  1 


242  AT  THE  NO  RE 

Thank  goodness  we've  no  morning  papers 

To  spoil  the  repose  of  the  day  ; 
With  notes  of  political  capers, 

Which  scare  all  enjoyment  away. 
We  feel  not  a  ghost  of  annoyance, 
No  grievance  have  we  to  deplore  ; 
While  life  is  all  joyance 
And  sparkle  and  buoyance 
And  all  its  sad  troubles  seem  o'er : 
Happy  are  we, 
Watching  the  sea — 
With  ships  sailing  by 
And  the  oft-changing  sky — 
In  keenest  content  at  the  Nore  ! 


When  twilight  comes  wholly  unclouded — 

As  day  is  beginning  to  die — 
The  splendour  of  sunset  is  shrouded 

In  sweetness  of  celadon  sky  ! 
You  may  muse,  as  the  wavelets  are  foaming, 
While  vessels  go  past  by  the  score ; 
Both  outward  and  homing 
Lights  gleam  in  the  gloaming, 
And  glitter  like  jewels  galore  1 


AT  THE  NO  RE  243 

Red,  white  and  green, 
There  may  be  seen  ; 
As  liners  down  glide 
Or  steam  up  on  the  tide — 
And  pass  in  review  at  the  Nore  ! 

When  lamps  at  Sheerness  we  see  gleaming, 

When  nocturnal  breezes  begin, 
And  our  light  from  the  masthead  is  beaming — 

It  seems  about  time  to  turn  in. 
I'm  sure  that  no  bedstead  by  Gillow 
Could  equal  your  bunk  on  the  floor ; 
Where,  lulled  by  the  billow, 
You  want  no  hop-pillow 
To  cause  you  to  slumber  and  snore  ! 
Rocked  on  the  deep, 
Soundly  you  sleep  : 
Though  breezes  may  blow, 
And  you  toss  to  and  fro — 
You  dream  with  delight  at  the  Nore  ! 


GOOD-BYE    TO    THE  RIVER 

Good-bye  to  the  River  !    The  pleasure 

Of  holiday  making  is  past ; 
The  lounging,  the  laughing,  the  leisure 

A  nd  lazing  are  over  at  last  ! 
Farewell  to  the  rhyme  of  the  rushes, 

A  nd  musical  wail  of  the  weir, 
The  leaf-song  that  soothingly  hushes 

The  happiest  days  of  the  year. 
For  mists  of  chill  autumn  are  rising, 

As  leaves  sere  and  severed  drift  down, 
The  emerald  lawns  half  disguising 

With  gold  and  with  scarlet  and  brown. 
The  Season  is  over  !    'Tis  very 

Distressing  to  make  one's  adieux, 
To  moments  delightfully  merry 

And  skies  sempiternally  blue  : 
To  thousands  of  bright  recollections 

Of  hours  that  were  never  too  long  ; 
To  countless  entrancing  reflections 

Of  sunshine  and  summer  and  song  t 
Good-bye  to  the  drifting  and  dreaming 

Where  breezes  so  balmily  sigh  ; 
A  nd  ripples  are  glancing  and  gleaming 

Good-bye  to  the  River  !    Good-bye  ! 


A    000  684  964    0 

A  PORTRAIT 
)seph  Ashby-Sterry   (1838-19 

i   sunny  girlhood*  s  vernal  life 

She   caused  no   small   sensation, 
ow  the  modest  English  wife 

To  others  leaves  flirtation. 
ie' s  young   still,   lovely,    debonait, 

Although   sometimes  he1"   featur 
?e  clouded  by  a  thought  of  care 

For   those   two   tiny  creatures. 

a  eh  tiny,    toddling,   mottled  mite 
Asserts  with  voice  emphatic, 

i  lisping  accents,   nMite  is  right," 
Their   rule  is  autocratic 

le   song  becomes,    that  charmed  manki 
Their  musical  narcotic, 

id  baby  lips   than  Love,    she'll   f 
even  more  despoti". 

lullaby  when   singing   there, 
"astles   ever  building, 
destiny  she'll   carve  in  air, 
Bright  with  maternal   gilding: 
Dung  Guy:    a  clever  advocate, 
So  eloquent  and  able! 
powdered  wig  upon  his  pate, 
onet  for  Mabel! 

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